


Flight of Angels

by cegodfre, Lilith Sedai (orphan_account)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28096884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cegodfre/pseuds/cegodfre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lilith%20Sedai
Summary: Christine has a change of heart after leaving Erik to the mercies of the mob. Returning to protect Erik, she is suspected of complicity with him and he must rescue her from the Opera staff. Raoul refuses to understand and takes devastating action. R. Angst, romance, first-time.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Flight of Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Flight of Angels  
> by Cara Liane (Lilith Sedai circa 1990) (lilith_sedai@hotmail.com)  
> With thanks to Jeanne Marie

By whom, and by what means, was this designed?

The whispered incantation which allows

Free passage to the phantoms of the mind?

By you; by those deceptive cadences

Wherewith the common measure is refined;

By conscious art practised with natural ease;

By the delicate, invisible web you wove--

The inexplicable mystery of sound.

\--T. S. Eliot

Raoul de Chagny hustled Christine Daae, his beloved bride-to- be, through the milling, shouting crowd which flooded the grand foyer of the Opera. Panic reigned supreme in the wake of the death of tenor Signor Piangi and the disappearance of the young soprano ingenue, both at the hand of a confirmed madman.

In the excitement, no one spared them a second glance.

"Hurry," he urged her, his arm around her waist carrying her forth when her feet stumbled clumsily. "My carriage is waiting."

Christine tried to hurry her pace, keeping her head bowed lest she be recognized. Out the side door into the cold air, hoisted up hurriedly into his carriage-- the elopement which she had dreamed of!

The carriage door slammed shut and Raoul was beside her, his white linen shirt torn, the red marks of Erik's noose still on his neck. His fair skin was covered with perspiration. He wiped his face wearily with a lace kerchief taken from his pocket, smudging the delicate fabric.

"Safe at last," he groaned, lying back against the tawny velvet cushions. Christine felt the carriage rattle around a corner at an alarming speed, clattering down the Rue Scribe, and she glanced out the small lead glass window.

Against her will, Christine cried out with dismay. She flung herself over Raoul, struggling to see back to the dim tunnel which was irretrievably gone behind them. She batted away Raoul's hands with surprising strength, hot tears scorching her cheeks. Deep down beyond the dank gate which led into the Opera cellars, she had glimpsed torches... hundreds, it seemed, carried in the hands of men and women, who were shouting, she could hear them, on their way to kill--

"Erik!" Christine wailed, feeling as if she had woken suddenly from a dream. Her senses finally escaped from the shock which had overtaken her as the Phantom lifted his mouth from hers, pushed her gently away from him, and led her to Raoul, all before burning away the string which held the noose of the Punjab lasso and putting her hand into that of his rival.

"Sit down," Raoul took her waist and lifted her bodily, placing her back in her seat. "He'll never bother you again, Christine." He smiled wearily, trying to be comforting.

"No!" She struggled. "We can't leave him. They'll kill him, Raoul!"

Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, sighed tiredly. "Christine, I really don't care." He took her hand. "That mob is the only reason we're free now. If he doesn't get away from them..." Raoul shrugged slightly, a little ashamed of his feelings, letting the gesture finish his sentence.

Christine stared at him with horror, her mouth working soundlessly. Raoul could not meet the accusation in her eyes, and he let his own fall.

Christine felt the carriage slow, preparing to take another turn, and she wrenched open the door on her side. She would go back! The unexpectedly swift leftward swing of the coach flung her out and she tumbled onto the cobbles, coming to rest in a crumpled heap.

Raoul swore at the top of his lungs, shouting for his driver to stop. The coach finally rumbled to a halt and Raoul flung himself out, racing back to find her, praying that she was still alive, that she hadn't killed herself in her recklessness.

There was no sign of her on the cobblestones where she had fallen. Standing in the street, his fists clenched, Raoul swore again, desperately whirling, trying to catch sight of her through the crowded pedestrians. It was no use.

She must have been all right. She must have gone back to the Opera. Raoul broke into a trot, then a dead run, racing back to the dark passageway which had disturbed her so much. There was no sign of her.

"Have you seen Christine Daae?" He demanded of the single young man waiting at the gate, obviously left there as a guard. He knew this man vaguely as a dimwitted but amiable young fellow who assisted the scene-shifters and did small jobs around the Opera, making himself as useful as he could.

The dull guard stared at him doubtfully, shaking his head. "The Opera Ghost took her, didn't you know that?" He waved his pistol casually down the corridor. "The whole Opera's down there, trying to find her."

"But didn't she pass this way, just a moment ago?" Raoul reached through the bars and shook the man's shoulder furiously, making a lock of his ill-kempt hair straggle down into his eyes. "Have you been here the whole time?" the Vicomte demanded.

The guard's open manner drained away, and he clumsily jerked back from Raoul's hand, his eyes dismayed. "You'd better go home, Monsieur," he managed. "Monsieur Andre will take care of everything."

Raoul stared at him with disbelief. If she hadn't come this way, she must have hit her head and wandered away from her fall in the wrong direction. His heart rose to his throat as he imagined her lost and disoriented, a perfect victim for any cutthroat who happened by.

"Mon Dieu," he moaned, cursing Erik in his heart. "This is all your fault, Monsieur!"

The guard took a prudent step back from the grief and anger in Raoul's voice. "Go home, Monsieur," he repeated, thinking the words were directed at him. "She'll be rescued. There's no way the ghost can escape this time."

"If you see her, Monsieur," Raoul began, and halted, staring down the street. His darling, her forehead bleeding, was making her way slowly up the sidewalk with her palm supported by the solid wall of the Opera.

The gate guard followed Raoul's eyes. "Mademoiselle Daae?" he questioned her, doubtful, and her eyes lifted.

"Here I am," she murmured. "Call them back!"

"But Signor Piangi, Mademoiselle." The gate guard shook his head sadly.

Raoul rushed forward, gathering her in his arms. "Darling," he brushed at the blood on her head, and Christine suffered his touch without resisting. "Come, I'll take you back to the carriage--"

"No!" Christine pushed him away with sudden determination, standing on her own once more. "I'm going back down." She lifted her still-dazed eyes to the guard. "Open the gate."

"No!" Raoul and the guard chorused, at once.

"I have to," she pleaded. "I... I'm the only one who can..." her voice trailed away, her eyes flickering back and forth between Raoul and Richard. She realized she was hardly likely to gain Raoul's support in this endeavor. "I can help," she slowly looked away from Raoul and focused on Richard, realizing who he was for the first time. There was hope, after all! Shaking away the final dizziness of her fall, she began to think with clear cunning. "I can draw him out. He'll come to me. They'll never find him without me, Richard. Let me in," she gave poor, dense Richard a persuasive smile.

"Christine!" Raoul shouted, infuriated. "Monsieur, she's lying, she wants to help him!"

Richard stared at the draggled figure of the Vicomte, his eyes narrowing. "She was helping them capture him," he explained, clearly not recognizing Raoul even now. "I don't think she'd rescue him, Monsieur."

"That's quite right," Christine agreed feverishly. "Just let me in, and I'll go to them, I'll lead them to him. I know where he is. Just let me--"

"No, mam'selle," Richard shook his head firmly. "I have to stay here, I couldn't go with you, to protect you from him. They'll find him." Someone had given him his orders well. Christine's shoulders sagged.

Raoul took her arms, thinking that she had surrendered to reason. He began trying to lead her with him back to the carriage. It was a mistake.

Christine's head whipped around, her eyes blazing. "Touch me again, Raoul, and I'll scream!"

"Let her go," Richard agreed, his pistol displayed overtly in his hand. "She doesn't want to go with you, Monsieur."

"Oh, Richard, he frightens me!" Christine moved away from Raoul, her back to the slow-witted guard, her eyes crafty. "Let me through the gate, to stand with you!"

"I will." He turned his heavy key and pulled back the creaking gate. Christine hurriedly backed through it, standing close at his side. Richard gestured smugly at Raoul with his gun as he re-locked the gate, keeping the furious Vicomte at bay. "You'd better go," he remarked with innocent arrogance, shoving the key loosely into the waistband of his trousers.

"Do you know who I am? I am Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny!" Raoul bellowed, infuriated by the man's behavior. Before Richard had a chance to speak, Christine piped up instead.

"I'm sorry, Raoul," she said clearly, and without warning, she fled down the long corridor, leaving Richard staring after her, speechless, his gun sagging at the end of his limp arm.

"Now will you let me in?" Raoul snarled at the pale gatekeeper. "I warned you, Monsieur! Now she'll go to him!"

"I would let you in, Monsieur le Vicomte," Richard stammered, feeling at his belt, "But she's taken my key!"

Raoul cursed. Sparing no more time for the apologetic Richard, he hurried around to the front of the Opera. He would return by the way Madame Giry had shown him.

Christine rushed down the long, dank corridor, every stride jarring the terrible ache in her head. Poor Richard! Raoul would be so furious with him. She felt shame at her deliberate manipulation of the dimwitted boy who had always shown her politeness and kindness. But she had no time to spare for either Richard's guilt or her fiance's selfish anger.

She rounded a final bend and found her way barred by the lake. She glanced doubtfully up at the ceiling, at the slender rope suspended there, almost invisible in the darkness. Erik could run across that rope as easily as if it were a broad highway. There was no way she could use it. And of course, the boat was not there. Even if it had been, she wasn't at all sure that she had the skill to steer it using the long, heavy pole.

She could skirt the lake, if the water wasn't too high... she wasn't sure whether it was or not, and it would take a long time, time which she couldn't afford to waste. She would swim, if the waterlogged skirts of her gown wouldn't drag her under.

Christine agilely twisted out of her bulky petticoats and plunged into the lake immediately, not pausing to remove her slippers. The cold water burned her cut forehead like fire. She was weaker than she had anticipated, her clothes heavier. She tried to ignore it, struggling to make progress through the icy water.

She dragged herself onto his wharf at last, her teeth chattering, and flung open the door to his house.

"Christine!" Meg Giry's voice, and all eyes turned to her. Christine staggered in, her wet clothes clinging to every inch of her body. Everyone she knew was there, it seemed. Carlotta, Andre, Firmin, the entire chorus and half the patrons of the Opera... they had kicked over and trampled the rich furnishings of the house, slashed up the Persian rugs, hacked at the very walls, searching for money or trapdoors or jewels or whatever else they might find, in their vengeful lust to steal and destroy.

"Leave him alone!" Christine screamed, her voice ragged. "Don't bother him!" She staggered into the room, beating her way through the crowd of people, searching for some sign of her Erik. All eyes turned to stare at her with mingled shock and distaste.

"He isn't here," Meg came to her side, the Phantom's mask forgotten in her hand. "Listen to me, Christine," she begged, trying to break through her friend's hysteria.

"Stop that!" Christine caught Carlotta's wrist, keeping the sneering soprano from hurling a large handful of Erik's music into the fireplace. Carlotta laughed derisively and Christine lost her temper. She slapped the Italian diva with all her might, her hand leaving an angry red print on Carlotta's face. Carlotta fell backward ungracefully, a shocked whimper emerging from her throat. Christine advanced over her, her fury finding a focus. "How dare you!" She fell onto the older woman, her hands curving into claws. It took both of the managers to pull her away. Carlotta broke into loud sobs, instinctively playing the situation for all it was worth, a ridiculously overblown production despite her honest grief for Ubaldo Piangi.

"She's mad," a contemptuous voice came clearly, aimed at Christine. "The monster's turned her head completely!"

"The little tramp," someone else agreed, and several others tittered with agreement, murmuring of her rumored romantic liaisons, both with Raoul and with the murderous Phantom.

Christine went limp and the managers released her to slump ignominiously. They hovered over Carlotta with solicitude. Blindly Christine reached out for Meg, taking the delicate white mask from her, clutching it desperately.

Meg hugged Christine, ignoring her soaking wet garments as best she could. "Come on, we've got to get you out of those before you take a chill," Meg whispered, trying to get her friend on her feet so they might return to the Opera and find dry clothes for her.

Christine resisted, standing her ground, watching with angry eyes as the rest of the crowd reluctantly abandoned their sport and made their way out of Erik's lair, to seek him in the catacombs.

"Come on," Meg urged, unnerved by the thought of remaining in this place without the others.

Christine shook her head and took Meg's hand as she rose, leading her to an innocuous-seeming wall. She lightly touched the wall molding in an intricate pattern, giving a final insistent tug at shoulder level. A section of the wall swung outward silently, and she dragged Meg through.

Meg Giry was shocked to find herself in a luxurious, well-lit room filled with beautiful furnishings. It was fit for Marie Antoinette herself, Meg thought with astonishment. A beautiful dresser and wardrobe of satiny dark wood, and the most sumptuous bed... in the shape of a gondola from Venice, that bed, a rich mahogany creation covered with satin sheets and pillows, with a crimson lined blue velvet coverlet quilted in gold thread fleurs de lis. An oval mirror stood by the dressing table, its frame carved from the same dark silky wood, with graceful, sinuous dragons chasing one another around the polished surface.

"What is this place?" Meg whispered with awe.

"My room," Christine answered matter-of-factly, going straight to the wardrobe. Meg gasped when the doors fell open, revealing the most extravagant array of dresses she had ever seen. Christine shed her soaked garment and underthings and replaced them with new ones, swiftly.

"We have to go, Meg," Christine chose a cloak as well, closing the wardrobe. "Raoul will be down here any minute."

"But what about the Phantom--"

"We're quite safe from him," Christine assured her, a flicker of pain showing in her crystal blue eyes. "I'm much more concerned about Raoul."

"Do you think the Phantom has him?" Meg's eyes grew wide.

"No," Christine shook her head, guiding Meg back through the house. She paused, biting her lip. She had no wish to argue with Raoul. They'd wasted too much time already.

Her eyes sought the inkwell which customarily rested on Erik's piano, but it had been flung away and shattered against the wall. Any message she left for him would be seen if people returned... the Phantom's lair was no longer secret or safe. She stifled a sudden surge of tears, hurrying on with Meg. Her hand sought the mask, safe in the pocket of her cloak.

Erik's boat rested at the wharf. Christine was too distraught to wonder how it had returned there after she and Raoul used it, or even to recall that it had not been present when she arrived only minutes ago. She clumsily steadied it as Meg climbed in, got in herself, and lifted the pole experimentally. She tried to remember how Erik had held it.

She dipped it deep into the water, finding bottom, and shoved them away from the little dock.

Erik watched, poised on his rope walk, as Christine laboriously poled herself and Meg across the black water in his boat. He debated dropping down between them, but Meg would scream and bring the mob down on them. He shook his head wryly, remembering the impressive volume of her shrieks when Piangi's death was revealed.

The moment passed, and his chance was lost as Christine's inexpert handling of the boat caused its course to diverge from the path of his rope walk. Why had she come back? He had thought Raoul meant to leave with her at once. He'd told that fool of a boy to take her out of here, where she'd be safe.

Erik paused, listening intently. He could still hear the furious crowd which sought to find him. If he were caught here above the lake, there would be little chance of escape. He turned and skimmed lightly across the rope, back to his home. There were a dozen escape passages he had prepared there, and he could use them at need for immediate entrance into any part of the Opera. Some even led beyond it. At the very least, he reassured himself, he could be certain the mob would not harm Christine.

Christine spied Raoul awaiting on the bank, and she sighed. No doubt he would have several choice words to say about her little deception.

"Don't start," she requested him with tight sincerity, stepping out of the boat. She did not give him the chance to speak. "I'm not leaving till I know he's all right, do you hear?"

"Christine--" Raoul paused, glancing at Meg in a pained fashion.

"We're going to walk her back up to the building," Christine announced firmly. "I don't want to let her wander around down here alone."

Raoul nearly choked himself restraining all the things he wanted to say at once. Christine took Meg's arm and began to guide her from the cellars.

Raoul followed, stamping irritably. Christine led them on a winding path, avoiding the mob, her gaze clear and alert as she kept an obvious vigil for signs of Erik. At last she took Meg's hand, pressed lightly on the wall, and they stepped through it into her dark, abandoned dressing room. Raoul stared in astonishment, realizing they had come through the mirror. He had hardly known where they were, and yet Christine seemed to know every passage! How often had she gone down to Erik without telling him? How much time had she spent with his rival?

Christine saw Meg out and turned back toward the cellar determinedly, standing on tiptoe, her hand reaching for the trigger to the counterweight. Raoul snatched her back, glancing to make sure that Meg had left the room.

"No, you don't," he commanded her. "We're leaving, Christine!"

Christine met his eyes sadly. He became aware of the deep cut and bruise on her forehead. "You can come back to see about him another time," Raoul urged her. "You know they didn't catch him." He saw weakness in her eyes, and pressed his advantage. "He won't let them catch him. You're hurt, Christine. You need rest."

Christine swayed slightly, thinking of Erik alone in the catacombs, only a step ahead of the murderous throng. Raoul's words were sensible, and her head ached mercilessly. However, she could not leave with Erik's safety in doubt. She'd already discovered that.

"I'll stay here," she decided, her fatigue showing as she slipped her cloak from her shoulders.

"No, I don't think you should. What if he--"

"I'll stay here, Raoul, or I'll go back down there and search till I find him." Christine hung her cloak from a hook in the wall, withdrawing the silvery-white mask from the pocket.

Raoul stared at Christine, confused by her stubbornness. Where was the pliant, agreeable girl he'd loved since boyhood? She seemed to have evaporated over the past few hours, leaving behind a pale, resolute stranger. She was caressing the Phantom's mask as though it were inexpressibly dear to her.

"But--"

"Please don't argue, Raoul. I'll be quite all right staying in here till morning." She sank into the wooden straight-chair before her dressing table, dismissing him.

Raoul paused, indecisive, feeling his bewilderment flicker toward anger. At the very least, she needed a doctor. His eyes revealed his irritation.

Wearily Christine set the mask aside. She rose and pressed a kiss against Raoul's stiff, angry mouth. "I'll be fine, Raoul." She let herself lean against him for a moment, then stood away. Was this really the second time tonight she'd bought her way with a kiss?

Huffing slightly, Raoul turned and stalked out. Until she was his bride, she still had the right to order him from her rooms, but he would stay nearby in the corridor in case she needed him.

Christine nearly collapsed with relief, sliding the bolt on her door. She lit the gas lamp and returned to her chair. She rested her elbows on the table, swiping mechanically at her loose hair.

Eventually she stirred herself and began to loosen her clothing moodily, deciding to lie down and try to sleep. She stood to make the process easier, and found her eyes drawn to the mirror. She watched her slim fingers unlace the bodice of the dress. She stepped closer to the mirror, gazing drowsily into her own eyes as she finished with the bodice and undid the pearl buttons at the cuffs.

Erik might be standing right there. The possibility flashed into her mind rapidly, unexpected. There behind the mirror, where he had lingered so often, singing to her. He could be watching her through the one-way glass. He might have heard her entire conversation with Raoul. It was quite likely, really, that he had seen her in the catacombs and followed her here.

She carefully did not let the thought touch her eyes or her expression. Her thoughts strayed to the kiss she had shared with him. Her legs felt oddly weak as she recalled the firm, warm pressure of his mouth moving gently against her own. She lifted her hair over her shoulders, braiding it slowly. How close to the mirror would he be? Scant inches, or pressed right against it, in either case less than a foot from her. Funny how the memory of his kiss made her feel dizzy. She could remember every instant, every sensation, all with perfect clarity, even the feel of his crisp, stiff-fronted dress shirt against her.

She paused for a long moment, realizing that after she braided her hair, she had finished unfastening her dress and now she stood poised to remove it. There was a strange freedom to this, an ease and a tantalizing pleasure in undressing without knowing whether he watched her or not. If he were watching-- it would make her blush if she let herself think that. However, something in her retreated instinctively from letting sensibility prevail over sensation.

Christine let her dress slide from her shoulders, revealing the filmy chemise she wore. It was one he had provided for her. How appropriate, then, if he watched! She felt a pleasant warmth surge through her, pinkening her cheeks and brightening her eyes. Lazily she let herself drift even closer to the mirror. She began to hum softly, feeling her breathing calm in her chest. How could she be so calm, not knowing? She looked at her image again, but this time her mind realized exactly what he would see, were he there.

She became self-conscious immediately, turning her back to the revealing mirror with a frown. It was not right to feel this way. Erik terrified her, did he not? She was betrothed to Raoul. She had made her decision. She had kissed Erik only to buy Raoul's life and her freedom. Hadn't she?

Impulsively she turned her head over her shoulder, to the mirror. "Erik?" she spoke timidly, hoping he would step out and help her understand her tangled feelings.

The mirror did not answer. Christine pulled on a dressing gown and tied it securely, trying to ignore growing feelings of disappointment... and guilt. She sat down at her dressing table and buried her head in her hands, growing still.

She was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she did not hear the sounds behind her wall until it was too late.

Christine whirled at the sound of people behind her mirror... the chatter of the managers, Carlotta, and the others who comprised the bloodthirsty mob that had entered the cellars in pursuit of the Phantom. They had found his highway to her room, they had found the mirror! She rose and faltered, torn between staying to meet them or simply fleeing the room.

"Break it!" Carlotta's voice, shrill and impatient.

"No, Signora," Firmin soothed her, always conscious of every penny, even in a situation like this.

"Here's something," came a shout, and suddenly they were pouring into Christine's dressing chamber through the half-open mirror, Carlotta in the lead.

"Aha!" The diva curled her lips in a sneer, her voice rising shrilly. "And what do we find at the end of the demon's road? His accomplice!"

Christine tried to stammer a denial, her eyes fastened to the angry red mark her own hand had caused on Carlotta's cheek.

"That's her! She took my key," Richard blurted, standing at Carlotta's side. "The man said she'd only help the ghost. At first I didn't believe him, but then she tricked me and took my key." He nodded to confirm his own words.

"And who was the man that said that she was in league with the ghost?" Carlotta prodded him, her eyes darkly triumphant.

"He was the Vicomte de Chagny," Richard answered her innocently, drawing a collective gasp. "He tried to warn me, he did."

"I'm afraid we'll have to take you into custody, Mam'selle." A bewhiskered gendarme stepped forward, sternly reaching for Christine's arm. "This is a serious charge. A man's been murdered."

"Two men," Andre reminded him, sidling up importantly.

Christine backed away helplessly, her mouth falling open with dismay, her hand unconsciously clutching Erik's mask.

"What do you have in your hands?" Carlotta purred slyly. "Is your lover hiding in here with you now? Search her room!" She commanded the gendarme, but she did not wait for him to begin. She strode around the perimeter of the room toward Christine's wardrobe, the only possible place large enough to conceal a man.

The gendarme stepped to her side hastily, obviously protective. "Stand back!" he lifted his pistol, and immediately fired a shot into the wardrobe.

The shot thundered in the enclosed space, causing several pained protests. There was a sound of running footsteps in the corridor, and Raoul burst through the door, his wild eyes fastening to the gendarme's smoking pistol. "Good God, what's going on here?" Raoul bellowed. "Have you all lost your minds?"

As the mob surged forward eagerly to examine the splintered wardrobe, Christine backed away toward the wall, distraught by Carlotta's accusation and the gendarme's obvious indifference to Erik's life. Even if Erik evaded capture, Carlotta would not allow Christine to escape her revenge. Carlotta would see to it that Christine would be taken for questioning. If-- no, when-- they took her, Erik would very probably give himself up to gain her freedom.

She should have obeyed him and left with Raoul. She let her eyes close, a single tear trickling out from beneath her lashes. She sank back against the mirror, feeling its cold, smooth surface against her shoulder blades.

Far below, Erik surveyed the damage done to his home by the lynch mob. The catacombs had grown quiet, indicating that they had given up for now, but they would be back again. He could stay here no longer, no matter how he might wish to remain with his memories of Christine.

Christine. She hadn't gone away. He slid his hand thoughtfully across the newly scuffed surface of his fine piano. Why had she come back? To see if he'd been caught? To defend him from his potential captors? To tell him her decision had changed?

He sighed wryly. After the kiss they had so unexpectedly shared, he hardly knew what might be in her mind. He had never expected her to kiss him willingly, but she had. And now, she had come back to look after him...

He had always known that if he forced her to save Raoul by staying with him, she would never willingly yield even her lips to him. But at the very moment he had been driven to force her decision, inexplicably, she had kissed him with a tenderness that approached passion... it had been the single most pleasant instant he could remember in his lifetime.

Was it only a bribe to persuade him to free Raoul? How could she have done it if there were nothing in her heart for him but loathing and pity? That kiss had been thorough: unrushed and breathtaking, but he had no way of knowing if it had affected her as strongly as it had affected him.

Experimentally he touched his fingertips to his face, comparing his own twisted lips to the silken softness he remembered from hers. No, there was no way she could have derived pleasure from the touch of his mouth.

Bitterly he scooped up a handful of parchment sheets, the scattered remnants of the very score Christine had rescued from Carlotta. They had been quite thorough with their destruction of his home, leaving only Christine's bedchamber untouched. He was thankful that he had concealed the entrance to it.

Erik suddenly fell still, listening. Some inner intuition nagged at him: the sounds were not right. He drew close to the inner wall, listening intently. A few carefully placed vents, some metal pipe... these things had provided him with a convenient auditory access to Christine's chamber, so that he might hear her if ever she called for him. This deliberate trick of acoustics alerted him now, and he listened.

Carlotta's voice rose shrill and angry above the others in an accusation, and Erik felt his breath leave him abruptly. Damn the woman! Christine was innocent of any duplicity. But would anyone believe it now? No. They would take her and punish her in his place.

He tossed away the score of music and raced from his lair, sure-footed across the wildly dancing rope-walk, and up into the Opera, where his beloved needed him.

The moment Christine's back touched the mirror, it whirled on its pivot, dropping her into darkness. Her initial fright had only begun to ebb when she felt his strong hands on her, lifting her, going behind her back and under her knees. He ran so smoothly she could hardly feel the rhythmic connection of his boots with the rock-- so this was how he managed that rope, she thought dizzily-- and even as he ran he whispered reassurances into her ear. They must hurry, the gendarme would break the mirror when he couldn't find the counterweight, she would be safe now, safe with him. No one would ever find them unless she wished it.

Christine heard the predicted crash echo amazingly far behind them. The cascade of shattering glass seemed to go on forever, and then the shouting crowd entered the catacombs once more, in hot pursuit. This time, pursuing her. The thought brought a frightened, stifled sensation to her throat and she buried her head in Erik's chest, abandoning all her indecision in the sudden rush of gratitude as she realized he had risked himself to rescue her from the frustrated vengeance of the angry mob.

Eventually he began to lose momentum and he stopped to set her on her feet. Even he couldn't run forever, carrying her. She felt his fingers take the mask she still clutched in her hand, and she listened to the soft sounds of him settling it over his face.

He pulled her after him swiftly, confident in the pitch blackness. She followed, as trusting as a child, rushing after him with the absolute certainty that he would not let her feet stumble or let her run into anything in the blind dark.

Finally, after he had lifted her again several times to carry her down unseen flights of stairs, they arrived at the lake, but not at the inlet he customarily used. He struck a light with a clatter, and a narrow gleam from his lantern illuminated a streak of the still water.

"Around the edge," he explained, still slightly short of breath. He set out swiftly.

She followed in his wake, so dismayed by the mud that she carried her slippers and let it suck at her feet instead, lifting the hem of her dressing gown at times to wade through six inches or more of icy water. He moved with purpose before her, confident of his destination. At last he stopped. Christine could see him relax as he surveyed the sight before them. The formed walls of the Opera had given way to natural rock, and a long, low arch rose before them, water flowing through it into the lake.

He listened for a moment, then swiftly ducked beneath the natural arch, motioning her to follow. Christine shuddered back with fear, not wanting to crouch down under the slimy rock or step into the knee-high, ice-cold water. The sound of pursuit came loud behind them, and Christine saw the dazzle of lights across the lake.

"There they are," Carlotta shrieked, her voice echoing madly. "Come on, you fools!"

Christine dropped her slippers in her fright, and they sank swiftly into the dark water. She glanced frantically at the low passage where Erik had disappeared.

Erik swore softly in Persian, appearing once more. Rapidly he pushed her down beside him and pressed her through the low opening, keeping the lantern in one hand. "They might have shot at you," he told her tightly, and through her fear she realized he had placed his own body between her and that possibility.

Once they stepped through a short passage the ceiling rose, their lantern revealing a vast cavern carved by the underground river. Christine blushed, ashamed of the hesitation which had betrayed them. He did not give her time to apologize, pulling her along behind him again. After several minutes she could hear the pursuit growing louder, and she guessed their enemies had reached the opening.

The river passage seemed endless, stretching before them into the darkness for mile after unexplored mile. Her fear of being caught eclipsed the wonder she might have felt at the winding, branching caverns with their magnificent stalactites and stalagmites, surrounded by crystal pools of water, the air filled with the delicate liquid murmur of the subterranean river.

As she stumbled in Erik's wake, she tried to understand how this could have happened. She had returned to keep them from killing him. Her rage at Carlotta had stemmed only from the needless destruction of his beautiful music. She had gone along with the original plan to catch Erik. She had not helped him to commit any of his crimes. She had risked her very life to snare him, against her heart and her better judgment! How could they blame her for his escape? It wasn't fair.

A sharp contrast struck her unexpectedly from the midst of her tormented thoughts. Raoul had coolly placed her onstage while he waited at his ease, in a plush box with the managers, for Erik to arrive. She had been a vulnerable and helpless target for abduction, well within the line of fire... literally, for marksmen had been placed throughout the theater, their pistols trained at the stage. But Erik... he shielded her with his own flesh, protecting her at the risk of his life. She swallowed, aware of a remorseful ache in her throat. Who was the better man, then? Who indeed...

At last Erik made for a tumble of rock which climbed to the ceiling and stepped upward lithely, turning and extending a hand to help her climb after him. "Don't be frightened," he coaxed her, drawing her eyes from the wall, where the shadow of his cloak fluttered like a dragon's wing in the lantern light. She took his hand, letting him draw her up the rockslide, which was much easier to climb than it had looked.

Drawing near the top she could see that the ceiling, which had merely looked cracked from the floor, was actually split horizontally, and a thick layer had been worn away by the action of the water when the river still flowed at that high level. That ancient river had left a broad, level shelf of false ceiling jutting out for many feet. The limit of the breach extended past the penetrating light of their lantern. Erik lightly sprang across the narrowest gap to this seemingly unsupported platform and set the light aside. He held out his arms to her.

The space between them was perhaps four feet, easy enough for someone with a dancer's training, which she had. Still, Christine felt her knees go weak as she looked down into the void before her. It was steep and rocky, and the jagged floor looked very, very hard. She glanced unhappily at him, not wanting to make the jump.

"I'll catch you," he promised her, beckoning slightly.

She met his eyes and read absolute assurance there. Trust. Yes, she trusted him. Taking a deep breath, she leaped into his extended arms.

He swung her easily to the ledge and she began to breathe again, leaning on his arm for a moment, glad of its support.

He led her further back, carefully keeping to one side, where the unsupported rock floor flowed solidly up into the chamber's vertical wall. He was wise, she realized suddenly. In the middle or at the extreme outer edge, their combined weight would be much more likely to bring the floor down below them.

She heard the trickle of water a moment before she saw a slight alcove opening before them. Inside it, a small spring flowed down the dark, polished rock wall and made a pool on the floor. From this, a rivulet threaded its way across the smooth rock until it found an edge and pattered into darkness.

Erik paused there, nodding for her to drink. She complied gratefully, for their flight had left her thirsty. She knelt and scooped the cold crystalline water up in her hands, drinking her fill and then spreading the damp on her face, washing away the dust and dirt of the caverns. She bathed her sore feet as well, regretting the loss of her slippers.

Christine stood up again at last, listening to her breathing slow, hearing their pursuers as they began to draw near. He remained silent at her side, listening even as she did, then he extinguished their lantern and set it back into the niche.

"--Didn't even know this was down here," Andre puffed, irritably. "This is completely futile. They could be anywhere at all."

"Your hand at the level of your eyes," Raoul's tight voice, repeating the formula in an irritable reminder.

"We have them," Carlotta insisted. "This has to end sometime. They can't run forever."

"But the other passages," Andre fretted. "How do we know they came this way?"

"We have to follow the river, or we'll get lost," one of the chorus girls piped up, with pert audacity.

"Amazing." The gendarme, his voice awed. "All this, under the very streets of Paris!"

"Look," Carlotta nagged. "Maybe they climbed up there."

"Up where?" Firmin sounded disgusted. "Why bother? Let them go, I say, and good riddance. Wall up that damned hole and be done with them both no matter which passage they took."

Christine heard Erik make a soft scoffing noise at Firmin's suggestion, and she frowned, puzzled by his reaction. Just enough torchlight reached them for him to see her puzzlement.

"Let them try that," Erik breathed in her ear, "And the caverns will fill. The force of the dammed water will tear down the very foundations of the Opera in less than a week."

She understood, and subsided.

"Look up there where those rocks almost touch that crack," Carlotta insisted. "You go look, boy. There might be a passage that leads out."

"All right," Richard agreed slowly. "A torch, someone."

"Take a pistol," Andre commanded him irritably.

"Your hand, Richard," Raoul prompted him with exasperation. "Damn you all, I'll go myself."

Christine heard his deliberate steps and she could see the torchlight growing stronger. Raoul, volunteering to find her and turn her over to the anger of the mob? She shrank back, bewildered. She could make out Erik's face now, and she fixed her eyes on his, her face tight with rising distress.

Erik stepped backward into the alcove and pulled her against his chest swiftly, including her within the circle of his cloak. He lifted his arm so that the flowing black velvet obscured her completely and bent his head low, the wide dark brim of his hat covering his white mask, leaving them a vague shape shaded by rock and tucked up like a great black bat beneath the cavern's ceiling.

Christine felt them become invisible as his very breath stilled. She lay against him, feeling her heart pounding with surprising terror. They must not be found.

"There's nothing up here," Raoul's voice came, so close she nearly flinched. "If anybody tried to step on that shelf, the whole place would fall in."

"Well then for God's sake, come down," Firmin exclaimed nervously, lifting his voice to be heard over a chorus of murmured Hail Mary's and some curses.

Raoul complied and an argument ensued below, as they tried to decide whether they should search further or give up. At last, mainly persuaded by Carlotta and the whiskered gendarme, they decided to go on briefly. Christine remained absolutely still, waiting, as the torchlight grew faint and then disappeared into nothingness.

As her tension subsided, Christine felt Erik's warm breath against her face and realized exactly how close he held her, the protective circle of his arms comforting and disturbing all at once. She felt her heartbeat falter and then double.

She was so near to him, nearer than ever before. Even during their first and only kiss she had held herself slightly apart from him, if only to spare Raoul. Now she became intensely aware of the firm strong length of his body against hers. Her breath caught in her throat, her being flooded with sensations she'd never known before. The terror of pursuit and the relief of their escape combined like an aphrodisiac to weaken her resolve.

With the loss of light as the torches receded, the entire world degenerated to sound and touch alone. Erik embodied the darkness, and she felt as if his touch had ignited a rich, sweet fire in her skin... she could no longer perceive anything but Erik against her. There was no past, no future, just the exquisite present. Christine stirred, lifting her chin, then felt his hand sliding slowly up to cradle her cheek. Her lips softened instinctively, anticipating the descent of his mouth onto hers.

Divorced from vision, Christine forgot his twisted face and with it his murders and deceptions-- and she also forgot Raoul. She lost herself in him completely. The gentle pressure of his kiss persuaded her lips to open, and she shivered with delight as his hot, velvet tongue touched her lightly. The memory of his music pounded in time with the pulse beat in her throat, washing through her in an irresistible tide, leaving her pliant and responsive in his arms.

Erik, who had never willingly bent his knee before anyone, either man or woman, chose to stand straight even in this moment. His hands tightened on her waist, and only as she felt her feet leave the floor did she realize that he was lifting her. His mouth trailed an incandescent passage down her neck, lingering at the hollow of her throat. She felt her breath leaving her in a prolonged, helpless exhalation, which made her dizzy. His strong arms suspended her gently, holding her completely in his power, weightless in the dark.

And still he lifted her, his mouth drawing that fiery line lower, lower, till it encountered her dressing gown, reminding her that she wore only the briefest chemise beneath.

He paused with his lips against her, holding her above him, knowing that he could not bear her weight in this position for much longer. He marveled that she did not struggle. Rather, she accepted his bold action without protest, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. She had made no sound or motion apart from her rapid breathing.

Gently he pressed her back against the wall, letting it take part of her weight. He rested his single unmasked cheek against her warm, soft breast, which pulsed gently against him through the thin cloth of her linen dressing gown.

Christine felt her breasts come alive with an unfamiliar, heavy ache. She let her head fall forward, overcome by an intense need for his mouth to soothe her demanding flesh. Her lips formed an inarticulate plea, her arms tensing, her hands sliding behind his neck and into his soft, short hair.

Hardly daring to believe, he accepted her caressing touch as an invitation to continue. Gently his thigh came up and he settled her weight on it, freeing one of his hands and leaving the other behind her, steadying her.

Christine, distracted by the sudden unexpected sensation of pleasure as she settled onto his strong support, was only dimly aware that his free hand slipped into her dressing gown, lifting her breast and freeing the straining flesh fully to his touch. She became intensely aware of it as his extended fingertips stroked across the aureole one by one, with a leisurely grace which left the pearly flesh taut and throbbing. She could not restrain a startled gasp as his mouth urgently dipped to take her breast.

She pulled his head against her tightly, her breath coming sharp and fast. Her thighs tightened around his helplessly and she stirred on him instinctively. In response his kiss grew more certain, his mouth tugging lightly at her sensitive nipple, and Christine heard herself whispering his name, her voice straining as she tried in vain to remain calm despite the delightful sensations he was giving her.

The helpless, passionate sounds she made were sweeter in his ears than the most beautiful music, but he reluctantly lowered her feet to the floor, his hand adjusting the dressing gown to cover her breast once more. Her noises would reveal them, for their pursuers were even now returning.

Christine slipped down from him and fell back against the damp stone wall in a state of shock, setting her jaw against the sudden rush of shivering caused by an unexpectedly intense delayed reaction to his touch. The roaring rush of her own racing pulse was a hurricane in her ears, threatening to push her into a swirling faint.

They had parted not a moment too soon. He could see a faint glimmer of light as the torches rounded a concealing bend. He gathered her up in his cloak again, and felt her body shaking uncontrollably against him.

Razor-sharp disappointment lanced through him cruelly, an irrational, irresistible certainty born of self-doubt. Of course she shuddered after suffering an intimate touch from such a hideous monster! She was vulnerable, trusting. Kissing her like that, helping himself to her soft, helpless body without permission-- that had been an unforgivable lapse on his part, one which he must not repeat. Would she ever forgive him for it?

What must her terror be like, he speculated in misery, to have kept her from striking out, to have silenced her when she wanted nothing more than to beg him to stop? Did she truly believe he would harm her if she denied him, or perhaps even that he would have killed her if she screamed for help? All she had been able to do was whisper his name, a heartrending plea for him to release her: a plea which he had mistaken for the honest reciprocation of desire.

His mind reeled with horror and agonizing guilt. Those soft, enticing little sounds she had made... they'd only been an expression of her terror and loathing. Her tantalizing motions had been unhappy struggles, born of her wish to escape. He'd misunderstood them, a horrible mistake.

With anguish in his heart, Erik remembered the days he had spent in Persia, surrounded by callous and savage royalty who cared little for the slaves of their harems. He had been forced to witness savage rapes, he had seen unimaginable degradations required of unwilling girls on pain of death. The spectacle had sickened him. He had vowed that he would never force himself on a woman or ask her to do something she did not wish to do, even if it meant that he would die without having known physical love.

Now, in his thoughtlessness, he had nearly broken that vow. He had given his precious, innocent Christine no choice other than to endure his overly intimate caresses. She, the first woman he had ever touched in love (or otherwise, for that matter,) had been touched unwilling. The shame of it burned him.

He held her very gently, wishing nothing more than to retract his actions and repair this latest instance of shattered trust and damaged innocence between them.

Christine sensed his spirit withdrawing from her, and her own body grew wooden and heavy. She'd felt so light, feather-light, in his arms... reality returned now like a lead weight on her shoulders. She was betrothed to Raoul, but yet she'd let Erik kiss her, let him touch her breast in the most intimate manner... and she'd writhed against him, whimpered for him to continue, like a cheap trollop rented in some seedy back-alley!

Her face flamed crimson as she wondered what he thought of her wanton responses. And what would he expect from her now that she had allowed him so much? Perhaps he would expect everything she had to give...

Erik released her after the muttering throng passed below them on its way back to the regular cellars of the Opera. "Wait here," he spoke calmly, his voice betraying no hint of his tormented emotions. "I'll return for you."

She could see him silhouetted against the faint light, striding forward in absolute silence to follow their pursuers. He vanished swiftly, leaving her alone in darkness.

Christine released a long-held sigh, lowering herself to the cold stone. She wrapped her arms around herself, hoping to ward off the chill, and tried to sort out her tangled feelings.

Erik had kissed her, touched her intimately, and she had allowed it. Allowed it? The sensation of his caresses had stirred her so deeply that she had practically begged him to step beyond the bounds of decency. She laughed once at herself, harshly. As if permitting him to touch her at all could be considered decent by any stretch of the word!

She doubted it could. Christine was betrothed to Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. She had no business letting another man kiss her or caress her.

She shook her head, confused. Why had she allowed it, then? How had she made such a rapid transition from terror to this bittersweet, desperate craving? Was it because she had finally truly seen the deeply buried honor she'd always suspected to be present in Erik's nature, revealed at last when he let her leave with Raoul?

Yes. It was that deep, self-effacing nobility which wrung her heart and made her admit that she had always adored him, in spite of the fear he kindled in her, in spite of her instinctive revulsion at his scarred face. For she had always loved him. Oh, she had. From the first moment she heard his etherial yet exquisitely masculine tenor voice behind the mirror, she had wanted him. She buried her face in her hands. Whether he played the part of angel, teacher, or suitor, Erik enticed her mercilessly: mind, body, and soul.

No! She denied her feelings guiltily, pushing them away. She loved Raoul. She had loved him since childhood. She was promised to him. She would marry him when this was over... she was sure of it, even though her mind was disobedient and kept drifting, drifting, bringing back those fleeting instants of pleasure she had lived only minutes ago...

Wistfully remembering the fiery-sweet stroke of Erik's lips on her breast, Christine nevertheless shrank from the deep, subconscious awareness that she might finally be ready to grant him all that he desired. Her promise to wear Raoul's ring on her finger forbade her to allow that thought to cross her mind.

She stood up, shifting her weight from one foot to another as she tried to keep warm. The physical activity helped her to firmly banish all thoughts of Erik from her consciousness. She reassured herself that she could still stop the chain of events she had inadvertently allowed to begin. She would not let herself consider the cruelty of her decision to withhold her love yet again, after tempting him with hope.

Before Erik returned, Christine's thoughts were forcibly taken from any possibility of daydreams by the relentless chill of the damp caverns. Her slight frame was shaken by shudders and she drew her thin peignoir around herself as tightly as possible to preserve warmth. He would come back, she reassured herself tightly. He had taken the lantern, she did not know the way out... there was no way of getting out without light, she would never be able to find the right place to jump out onto the rockfall. He had to come back.

Her mind presented her with images of him caught and killed by the mob, but she rejected them, trembling. He knew that she was absolutely helpless without the light. He would not allow himself to be caught at the cost of her life.

These thoughts still absorbed her when she perceived the faint glow of a lantern. She tensed, scrambling to her feet, shrinking back into the alcove.

When his silhouette rose above the level of the floor Christine nearly wept with relief. She stepped out of concealment nervously, watching him advance.

Erik removed his cloak and set it about her shoulders, not speaking, standing only inches from her. She watched him lift the globe of the lantern and blow out the flame, to conserve oil. They were left in absolute darkness. Her heart set up a triphammer beat, and she had to remind herself to breathe.

"The passage is guarded," he remarked calmly. "There are firemen and gendarmes in three places and at the arch where the river flows into the lake." He paused and she wondered not at all idly what he was thinking, listening to the clatter of the lantern as he set it down. "There are other ways out, of course," he paused, considering. "They would not be easy for you, but they are not impassable."

"Other ways?" She automatically snuggled deep into the cloak, which was still warm from his body. Such a delicious warmth... wearing it felt like being wrapped in his arms. The sensation brought a tightness of emotion into her throat in spite of her resolve.

"Yes. Before the Opera was built, the water level was much higher than it is now. There are many abandoned well-shafts which penetrate the ceiling of the caverns.. We will find one as soon as dawn comes." Erik laughed softly, and the sound sent a delightful shiver down her spine. "No doubt our kind patrons think we will be forced to surrender out of hunger, but they are mistaken."

Christine smiled wanly into the darkness, considering the possibility. The idea of climbing a well-shaft did not appeal to her. Perhaps she should return, and give herself up... Raoul would keep her safe from them, she thought with dutiful loyalty. He would not let anything happen to her.

Erik's boots scraped on the rock and he stood up as if he had divined her thought. Christine heard the sound of his bootsteps receding and returning as he paced in darkness. She bit her lip, twisting the edge of the cloak in her hands. An uncomfortable silence grew, and she found that she was holding her breath, waiting for him to speak his thoughts. He meant to speak of the moment they had shared earlier, she was certain of it. She felt her cheeks heat, and she forced herself to begin breathing again.

Erik felt the damp chill of the caverns keenly now that he had given her his cloak. Sighing mentally, he turned back toward her. She was easy to find, her breath coming slightly too loud, too fast. She was afraid: no longer of the Opera rabble, but of him. Erik shook his head with frustration, and steeled himself to necessity. "We must rest," he stated flatly. "It will be necessary to share the cloak."

Christine gazed up into blind darkness with dismay. "Of course," she managed faintly, realizing that his logic was correct. He would indeed be cold without the cloak. They had no fuel for a fire, after all, and no other extra clothing. Even wearing it, she was not really warm enough. They must sleep together, wrapped in the thickly lined velvet cloak, pressed close against one another to preserve warmth.

He would take her now. Her face burned with the certainty of her realization. It had been inevitable, despite her little vows, that this moment would come, and he would make her his. It had been fated from the moment the pivoting mirror had tumbled her into his arms once more. Excitement mingled with trepidation, dizzying her.

She forced her fingers to release their death-grip on the soft, thick fabric, letting her hands fall to her sides, staring wide-eyed into the darkness as he approached her.

He lifted the heavy garment from her shoulders and settled it around his own once more. She listened breathlessly to the soft rustling of his clothing. She felt his hand descend onto her shoulder, the touch almost comforting. He paused for a moment and removed his hand. She heard him settle to the ground.

"Lie down in my arms," he spoke quietly, his voice a command which brooked no denial.

Trembling but obedient, with a secret, guilty thrill of anticipation, Christine knelt and crept next to him clumsily. He turned her till she lay with her back against him. She could feel one wing of the cloak between herself and the floor. Gently he slipped his upper arm over her and the cloak closed around her, curtaining her within his warmth. She lay stiffly, feeling her breath coming too hard, counting his strong heartbeats against her back.

"Lift your head," he breathed, and she complied, feeling his left arm slide under her cheek as a pillow. Carefully he brushed aside her long dark braid of hair, making sure that he would not pull it. His right hand settled again on her waist, chastely still. She realized she was tense with expectancy, waiting for that strong, proprietary palm to slide up to her breast or down along her hip and thigh. Her skin tingled pleasantly at the idea of his mouth touching the nape of her neck, but she felt only the subdued softness of his breathing stirring the wisps of hair that had escaped from her braid.

"Trust me," he murmured, and Christine, exhausted by the events of the day, gradually relaxed her guard until she slept enfolded in her dark angel's wings, as safe as a child in its crib.

She awakened at an indeterminate time, feeling the stiffness and chill of rock through his cloak. His arms had shifted in the night, becoming more possessive, and she was pressed tightly to his warm body, his hand resting just below her breasts. Her head had slipped onto his shoulder and she could feel his cheek warm against her hair. If it were not for the prosaic reality of unyielding rock beneath them, she would be completely drowned in a veritable enchantment of security and pleasure.

This, then, was how it would feel to share his bed. She lay absolutely still, willing her heart to steady and slow its traitorous quickening. The sheer rightness of lying against him like this stole her breath away, leaving her wide awake. Christine had never before slept in someone's arms. Even when she was a child she had never shared a blanket with a close friend or a sibling.

She felt herself blush shyly. She could get used to this very quickly. Even this soon she knew that to return to a cold, solitary bed would be a disappointment, if not an actual hardship.

She made a soft, involuntary noise as her muscles cramped in protest at the unforgiving rock. She shifted against him awkwardly in an effort to find a more comfortable position, unwilling to rise and give up the warmth of the cloak and his embrace. Drowsily he loosened his embrace to accommodate her, letting her turn against him to ease the tired muscles of her left side. Yes, she realized, this was what she really wanted, to press herself against his broad, masculine chest, to have her lips near his where they might easily share a kiss.

His arms tightened again and his breathing slowed back toward sleep. She shifted slightly, still trying to find a more comfortable place for her right arm, which was now uncomfortably pinched beneath the weight of her body.

"Be still," he murmured sleepily, not really awake. Still pressing her against him he rolled onto his back. His arms kept the cloak clasped tightly around her.

Christine gasped, lying flat on his chest, her slim thighs twined with his, hardly daring to breathe. This truly was an unthinkable position, one which filled her imagination with irrepressible images and filled her cheeks with a brilliant hot flush. He cradled her against him easily and she could feel him slipping back into the relaxation of deep sleep, truly unencumbered by her weight.

At last Christine forgot her embarrassment and let her head sag onto his chest, luxuriating in the feel of him below her-- certainly more pleasant than cold, unyielding stone.

She wakened later, feeling him carefully sliding her back to the rock. She whined a soft protest. He left her the cloak, gently wrapping her in its warmth.

Erik sat aloof, gazing at the darkness where he knew she lay. He could see a faint light creeping in, probably through one of the well shafts he had told her about. It was almost enough that he could see her.

The light gradually strengthened, granting him the sight of her still lying snuggled in his cloak. So small... he'd hardly felt her weight on him while they slept. How had they arrived at the position he'd awakened in? He could not remember. Erik swallowed with difficulty. He'd put her down as soon as he truly wakened. Her presence in his arms was an exquisite torture. To keep his vow, to avoid taking advantage of her, he'd had to separate himself from her.

He watched her stir at last, yawn, and rise to her knees. She blinked at the faint light. Her every motion was unthinkingly graceful as she settled her shoulders into the proper position beneath his cloak and stepped toward him.

Christine felt herself drawn to him. He seemed so sad sitting there in shadow, his mask in his hand. She wondered why he was suddenly so distant. She wondered why he hadn't kissed her again, given the intimacy of their sleeping arrangement.

"Erik," she greeted him softly.

He raised his eyes to her, noting the flash of white dressing gown and chemise behind the part of his cloak. She stood quietly before him, one trim ankle slightly advanced, her small foot bare. Her posture was almost suggestive, he noted, then reprimanded himself for the thought.

As an afterthought he replaced the mask, settling it with the ease of long practice. Christine watched without making any comment, shifting her weight from foot to foot. His cloak rustled where it trailed against the floor. She would freeze without it, he decided. Her peignoir was unbelievably flimsy, to leave so much of her legs exposed.

He looked up at her, suffering with his desire. She had turned her head aside, swaying back and forth ever so slightly, her tiny feet idly forming languid ballet steps before his eyes. Almost as if she deliberately tempted him. His eyes narrowed. Surely not. She was unaware of the impact of her actions, as usual. At least that innocent oblivion represented the return of her trust.

Erik rose, removing himself deliberately from the tantalizing sight of her delicate dancer's legs. Christine followed him, her motions still light, lifting the cloak so it would not trail through the earth and dust which patched the rock floor. The gesture would have revealed her slender legs to him again, had he allowed himself to turn and look. He did not.

"We will find a way out," he remarked, gathering up the lantern. "Then I'll take you..." he trailed off, his mouth setting grimly. "Wherever you wish to go," he amended his original thought. An irrational jealousy rose in him as he thought of the Vicomte de Chagny holding her in the night, as he had done. His jaw firmed with tight resolve. If that was what Christine truly wanted, she would have it.

He led her to the shelf and jumped across in a single stride, turning and extending a hand for her. She leaped immediately, coming to ground fully in his arms. There was enough light here for him to see her face lifted to his, to see her eyes sparkle with her laugh. She lingered a moment too long in the support of his arms, long enough for him to be keenly aware of her soft curves.

He put her down decisively and turned, leading her down the rockfall without watching to see that she followed.

Christine felt her pleasant morning mood dissipating rapidly as she picked her way down in his wake. What could possibly have come over him, to make him so sullen and silent? How had she displeased him?

In her preoccupation, she did not pay attention to where she placed her feet, and a rock rolled from under her. She fell with an unceremonious thud. She let out a whimper of pain, clasping her ankle.

Immediately he turned back to her and knelt, his fingers gently probing the rapidly swelling ankle. He murmured a soft oath in native French, which made her raise her eyebrows, the surprise momentarily eclipsing her pain.

"Is it--"

"Sprained, not broken." He stood back and stared down at her for a long moment without speaking, and she realized he was at a loss. "You won't be able to bear weight on it for at least a fortnight."

"Then I won't be able to climb out," she guessed at the cause of his dismay.

"No, you won't." He shook his head once, thinking. "I can climb out and bring back what we'll need."

"Will it be safe to stay here?" she asked doubtfully.

"Your Vicomte won't be satisfied with waiting. He'll come prying around eventually," Erik replied. "If he has sense enough to come alone, you can leave with him. If you like." he added shortly.

"Oh," Christine answered in a small voice. He hadn't exactly answered her question. "Then you mean I won't be safe unless someone is with me."

Erik shrugged. He did not care to frighten her with idle speculations that the caverns might flood. They did so at irregular intervals, which had prevented him from storing supplies here against an emergency.

She sat watching his face in the dim light. All which was visible was the white, expressionless mask. She felt the cold seeping into her aching ankle. Finally, satisfied that he was not going to pick her up, she began trying to struggle to her feet.

Automatically he helped her, supporting her so that she need not stand on the swollen ankle. His arm was aloof and impersonal about her waist. Christine felt her distress rising with the pain of her injury. How could he kiss her so passionately, hold her in the night so tenderly, and then change in an instant to treat her with indifference, as if she were worth less than a girl of the streets?

"I can stand, thank you," her voice was a trifle too curt. Erik shrugged and let her try it. She swayed, pulling her leg up, resting one palm against the wall. Tentatively she settled the injured foot to the ground and attempted to rest a little weight on it.

She bit back an exclamation of pain, her lips tightening. Leaning heavily on the wall, she lifted her eyes to him. He stood only a step away, not quite reaching out to support her but clearly wanting to do so.

"It's no use, I can't walk," she spoke dispassionately.

He nodded in agreement, glancing past her, his eyes gauging the climb and the jump back to their ledge. He would not like to try making that jump with her in his arms. It was a little too far, the ledge was a little too narrow, and he could not use his arms to balance them when they landed. They could not return to the ledge. He sighed, wondering if she would decide to give herself up.

Christine extended her arms to him impatiently, trying to ignore his uncharacteristic hesitation. "Erik?"

He scooped her up efficiently, without the grace he had previously shown, and began to climb down again.

Miserably Christine clutched his neck, painfully embarrassed by his subtle reluctance to touch her. She didn't understand. Troubled, she gazed at his face, seeing him avert his eyes carefully to avoid meeting hers.

In that moment a flash of unexpected, clear insight explained his actions to her. He thought he had overstepped his boundaries when he kissed her. Now he intended to repress all affectionate gestures in hopes that his restraint would reassure her. He did not mean to pursue the events which had occurred the previous evening.

"Oh," she exclaimed in a tone of surprised comprehension that bordered on disappointment. She bit her tongue as he glanced questioningly at her.

"Does your ankle pain you?" He set her on a smooth, flat rock at the riverside. Her ankle had swollen to twice its usual size. "Put it in the water," he instructed, knowing that the cold would reduce the swelling.

She did so, wincing at the biting chill. She tried not to let her teeth chatter. Sighing, she ran a hand back over her hair, which desperately needed brushing. How in the world could she tactfully let him know his actions had not distressed her?

She flushed slightly, trailing her fingertips in the rippling current. If she told him, she ran a definite risk of compromising her promise to Raoul. Once Erik knew his touch pleased her, his final reason for restraint would be removed.

She glanced at the firm, pained set of his jaw, and guilt washed through her. With compassion she gazed at his poor face, at his expression, which was ennobled by resolute suffering. She imagined his grief and his shame at his own actions. She could not bear the cruelty of letting him continue in that painful mistaken shame, for it clearly tormented him even more than his enforced celibacy.

The probable sacrifice of her virtue paled in comparison to the sacrifices of Erik's love for her. If giving herself to him would mend the hurts in his soul, then surely the greatest crime she could ever commit would be to withhold that gift. Christine felt her heart swell with love and sympathy... and relief. At last the twisted path to her decision lay clear. Her desire for him was justified, her love for him confirmed, her duty to him accepted.

She turned her face with the deliberate idea of smiling at him, but he sat aloof, not watching her. He was giving her space to breathe, excoriating himself for last night's intrusion.

Christine reached out, her fingers falling short of his arm by several inches. With an effort she shifted herself back, her foot rising from the water. She leaned backward until her stretching fingertips finally grazed the tailored cuff of his jacket.

Erik looked at her, startled, and Christine gifted him with her smile, trying not to overbalance and fall backward. Water from her injured ankle traced a freezing line down to her hip, making her gasp and falter. She sat up hurriedly.

Erik stared at her, transfixed by the sight which met his eyes. His cloak had parted, leaving her leg bare to the hip. The flimsy dressing gown and chemise rested across her upper thigh, their flimsy lace preventing his gaze from touching her intimately. She was laughing softly at herself, her face pleased now that she had his attention.

She beckoned him to sit closer. He paused, indecisive, then seated himself stiffly at her side. Christine observed his rigid lack of grace, bit her lip, and plunged into her honest confession.

"I think you have misunderstood me," she whispered, averting her eyes shyly.

It took several hours, but Raoul de Chagny finally finished his explanations to the police. He even managed to evade the clinging managers, who cared more for the possible loss of his patronage than for Christine's health and safety. Firmin, in particular, had an offensive conciliatory manner which positively oozed insincerity.

Angrily, Raoul loaded his pistol and stalked back down into the cellars for the third time. He would be ready to protect his betrothed bride from anyone who threatened. It was well after dawn and he had not slept in over a day, but he hardly cared. He would not give up. He would find her this time, without the others to bumble around and spoil the hunt.

Steadily Raoul strode through the cellars, bypassing guards with a curt nod. All were mindful of his title, and let him pass without complaint.

Keeping his pistol lifted before him, he stepped into the trackless caverns of the underground river, past the circle of light cast by the last guard's lantern. He would be quiet now, so quiet that even the monster would not hear him coming. He closed the lantern so that only a bare flicker of light shone through. Every few steps he paused, listening.

Raoul's caution was rewarded at last. He heart the soft echo of voices, distorted by the acoustics of the cave. Christine's clear tones, muted and emotional. Then the monster's voice.

Raoul's anger began to build dangerously. He abandoned his lantern altogether, allowing the faint sounds of their conversation to draw him forward. His finger tightened on the trigger of the pistol, in readiness.

A final curve of passage revealed the duo to him.

Christine sat on a flat rock, her leg drawn up before her. Clearly she had sustained some injury, for her ankle was swollen. The fiend sat at her side, his posture tense and looming. She did not look up at him, her eyes fastened to her hands in her lap. She was speaking timidly, her face flaming in the light of the lantern. Even as Raoul watched, the monstrous Phantom lifted his hand to Christine's cheek, making a soft query. Only the intensity of his tone reached Raoul's ears. Christine shook her head vehemently, lifting her eyes at last. Her face was pale and resolute. Raoul cursed silently as he spied the sparkle of tears on her cheeks.

The black-clad figure stared into her beseeching eyes for a long moment, then he turned from her, his shoulders rising as he took a deep breath. Then, unbelievably swift, with a motion which reminded Raoul of the striking of a snake, the Phantom whirled and claimed Christine's mouth, drawing an involuntary cry from her, his strong hands moving on her in sweeping, sensual caresses from breast to hip.

Raoul, shaking with wrath, leveled his pistol and centered its muzzle on Erik's heart. So the monster could not accept what was obviously her honest denial? Raoul would end his lechery with a bullet! His thumb drew back the hammer, which locked into place with an infinitesimal click.

Christine returned Erik's kiss with all her heart, relieved at this final resolution of her dilemma. His hands moved on her freely at last, dizzying, swooping caresses that set her aflame. He would take her now, as she had always dreamed he would-- but then his hands gentled, the bruising pressure of his mouth softening.

Erik forced himself to draw back, his eyes feverish, drinking the sight of her flushed face. She was utterly beautiful, and he wanted her desperately. However, this was not how he had envisioned their union. It must be no less than perfect when they first loved, not a hasty coupling in the dirt of a cold cave, the pleasure spoiled by nervously looking over their shoulders for signs of pursuit. He would find a way to get them out of here unseen, and then he could turn his attention to his--to their-- desires.

He stood back reluctantly, releasing her, reaching to pick up the lantern.

\-- a stunning impact, the sound of the world exploding... his eyes were ripped from those of his love, and through a sudden blaze of pain her piercing shriek tore into his consciousness. He comprehended what had happened as the boy stepped out of hiding, the barrel of his gun smoking. Then there was only a sensation of falling and utter freezing blackness --

\-- a bellowing, crashing roar made her flinch violently, in fear that the ceiling was falling. But then she saw Erik's puzzled expression, and the flower of red which blossomed and grew on his white dress shirt. She heard herself screaming as though from a distance. His hand lifted slowly as if to touch the wound, then without a murmur, he fell back into the river --

\-- stepping forward, prepared to discharge the second barrel of his pistol, he saw the wounded monster favor Christine with a final, dazed look and topple backward, disappearing into the dark, swirling water with a loud splash. Christine continued to scream and scream, her hands clutching vainly at the space where the Phantom had stood --

Raoul let his gun fall, wincing beneath the piercing volume of Christine's hysterical shrieks. He hurried forth to clasp her in his arms. "You're safe now, you're safe with me," he babbled, trying to reassure her. "He'll never hurt you again."

Christine's ear-splitting screams died away into a keening moan, her empty hands still fruitlessly grasping at the air. She stared at Raoul with glazed, empty eyes totally devoid of recognition.

He picked her up. She lay in his arms, limp and unresisting, her moans dying down to heartrending whimpers. He kissed her temple and carried her back to his lantern, shifting her weight to lift it. He made his way back toward the Opera, knowing that the sound of the shot and her cries would bring the guards down to help him.

"The monster kidnapped her against her will," he answered all inquiries tightly. "He is dead." He thanked God that the chief inspector of the gendarmes was not present. There would be time to speak with the man later.

Not letting anyone delay him, he hurriedly carried Christine from the Opera and placed her in his carriage. He made his driver whip up the horses, heading for home at a demonic pace.

Raoul put Christine in a clean soft bed, in the room where his own mother had slept before she died. She clung stubbornly to Erik's cloak, unspeaking. Reluctantly he let her keep it, drawing the blanket and coverlet over her. She lay limp, voiceless, her eyes unfocused, refusing to respond to any questions.

Raoul covered her with the thick white counterpane, blew out the light, and slipped away, hoping that sleep would restore her. He closed her door and blew out his breath unsteadily. Now that she was safe, he felt his adrenaline draining away. He stilled a tremor in his hands. He had nearly been too late.

A neat brandy, he decided, would do him a world of good. He made for the drawing-room, trying to ignore his queasy weariness.

He lifted the decanter and uncapped it. The bottle rattled against his glass. Who is the murderer now, a small voice seemed to mock him. Who is the murderer now... Raoul cursed softly, his hand clenching the delicate crystal snifter.

Raoul drank rather too much brandy, and his manservant had to bundle him off into bed.

When he dragged himself out of his room twelve hours later and soothed his throbbing head sufficiently to be able to face Christine, he made the dismaying discovery that her condition had not changed. She lay still in his dead mother's bed, firmly shrouded in the heavy black velvet cloak, her hands resting lifelessly on the counterpane. Her eyes did not flicker when he entered the room, or even when he spoke to her.

Raoul lit the lamps, pacing across the ivory carpeting to sit at her side. She looked woefully drawn, her cheeks hollow and pinched. Her eyes held a faint expression of horror.

Raoul reached out to stroke her cheek, his affectionate caress evoking no reaction at all. Uncertainly he sat next to her on the feather-filled mattress. His weight altered the balance of the bed, and one of her slender hands slid limply from her belly to her side.

Experimentally, he made as if to remove the cloak from her shoulders. Her hands revitalized immediately, clutching the garment close, intensely protective of it. Her eyes never moved.

Raoul stood up, lightly dropped a kiss on her forehead, and left the room softly. Immediately he dispatched his manservant to fetch a doctor.

The doctor came and went, his only diagnosis a shrug and a theoretical verdict of "shock." He had been unsuccessful in his attempts to examine Christine closely, for she still would not surrender the cloak.

That ghastly garment, her final link with the Phantom. Raoul cursed, casting a wistful glance at the half-empty brandy decanter.

A nurse was hired to care for Christine's physical needs. It would not be seemly for Raoul to attend them, though he longed to do so himself. The young nurse spent her time alternately chattering inanities at her noncommunicative patient, spooning up soup which Christine swallowed automatically, and flirting shamelessly with the footmen.

A week passed, and another, endless time during which Raoul grew increasingly disconsolate, often turning to his brandy for comfort. Christine neither moved nor spoke, with the single exception that she would allow no one to touch the cloak she wore.

They had planned to be married by now. Raoul bit back a gulp of the potent spirits, grimacing. If only she hadn't returned to the catacombs! If only the monster hadn't tried to force himself on her. Then perhaps he wouldn't have had to fire the pistol at all, and perhaps she wouldn't be sunk in this endless state of shock.

Raoul kicked the andirons moodily, causing the fire to settle in a flurry of sparks. Through the open door into the corridor he spied the petite, red-haired nurse tossing her head vivaciously at the eldest footman. Her laughter irritated him mightily.

Something must be done to bring his Christine back to him, if only to be rid of that nurse. Perhaps he could take her to a performance at the Opera. Surely that would bring the life back into her eyes. He was growing desperate: any stimulus that might awaken her was desirable to him, even if he must resort to her memories of the Phantom.

Raoul made his plans and purchased a box-- box five, a bitter irony, but one which might help to stir her from her catatonia. He found with relief that the players had abandoned Erik's Don Juan Triumphant after the first disastrous performance, and were presenting Faust. Hardly better, but Raoul was in no position to choose.

The night before the performance Raoul had the saucy nurse dose Christine lightly with laudanum. With relief, he imagined the nurse removing the black cloak which swathed Christine inside her unresponsive silence. The hired girl would bathe Christine and change the bed linens, leaving her ready to be dressed for the Opera when she woke.

Reluctantly Raoul deferred to the nurse's insistence that he have the cloak laundered rather than destroyed. He would have preferred to burn it, but he was forced to admit that Christine would want it when she wakened. He could not bear to imagine the unpleasant scene which would result if it were not available.

Raoul chose wisely. The instant Christine opened her lids late that afternoon, she began to pluck at the counterpane, a distant, agitated frown on her lovely face. The nurse dressed her swiftly in resplendent finery and then retrieved the cloak for her.

Christine settled into it peaceably and let herself be steered to a comfortable seat in the parlor at the fireside. She still had not spoken, nor would she.

Raoul sighed, ringing for his coach.

They cut an odd figure among the giddy revelry of the Opera crowds. Raoul spoke to no one, his face tense and unhappy. He guided Christine carefully through the throng with his arm about her waist, encouraging her every step as one would encourage a slow-witted, timid child.

She walked obediently, her eyes glassy. It did not seem that she perceived any of her surroundings to be familiar. The elegant, flowing black cloak trailed behind her, far too long for someone of her stature. It drew remarks from some, and distinct frowns from others, those who recognized it as belonging to the elusive Phantom.

Christine was oblivious to it all, awash in a sea of memories of Erik. She lived in the past, her mind desperately trying to block away the memory of him shot, of him falling into dark, rushing water.

Her fantasies were so complete she hardly noticed who attended her, who spoke, what she ate, anything. There was only memory and reverie, the thoughts of what had been and the imaginary projection of what should have been-- of what would have been.

The Opera was indeed drawing Christine out of her dazed mental wandering, but not perhaps as Raoul had hoped. Though the familiar settings urged her to draw close to the immediate time, they also drew her back unavoidably to the night Erik was shot.

Christine endured Faust, her face flushing hot and blanching cold by turns, her mind helplessly picturing Erik's death over and over and over again. She sat like a stone statue, paralyzed by her pain, her body tense now instead of limp.

Raoul did not notice the difference.

He finally began to relax, disappointed that his plan had failed but relieved in a vague way, for he had almost anticipated that she might begin to weep or cry out uncontrollably. He much preferred that they did not make a scene. Far too many eyes followed them anyway, recording with interest both their presence and her silence. Too many mouths were carefully shielded behind gloved palms for a whisper of titillating gossip. Too many fingers pointed at her oversized black cloak. It was not fitting for a man of his stature to have to endure such speculation from the common folk.

When Firmin appeared at the rear of their box with a bottle of champagne, an exaggerated smirk, and a deep bow, Raoul succumbed to the temptation to follow him. He did not care for Faust, and she would do well enough here, unmoving as she was.

Raoul tipped the boxkeeper to keep a watchful eye on his betrothed bride and stood nearby in the corridor with Andre and Firmin, sipping champagne and speaking in hushed whispers of their dead ghost.

Christine eventually became aware that Raoul no longer sat by her in the comfort of their box. Box five. She stirred, her eyes automatically finding the hollowed wall column through which Erik had made his entrances and exits. The exquisitely stained, apparently solid wood and the delicately veined marble was actually a thin shell in which a broad-shouldered man could stand with ease.

Christine could almost fancy that she heard his voice whispering to her, as he might have done if he were still alive. She let her eyes close, feeling the insistent undertow of her fancies and memories dragging at her again, threatening to pull her back down into unreality, where she had been so comfortable for two weeks.

She resisted the temptation to slip away from herself, shying away from the swirling mist of imagination. There was as much pain in her memories as there was in true life, for both inevitably culminated in Erik's death. Coming to the Opera again had forced her to admit it. Erik was dead.

Christine took a deep breath, struggling to hold back her tears. Still the soft voice of imagination tormented her, and the tears welled from beneath her lashes. "Erik, Erik," she breathed, miserably. "Oh, Erik..." she laid her palm gently against the column, remembering him.

"Christine." Yes, just so, he would have answered her call. She smiled faintly, indulging the quirk of imagination which provided the answer in his soft, caressing voice.

"Erik." She sighed. "I miss you so..."

"Christine." The whisper repeated, slightly louder, warm with love. She snatched her hand away from the hollow wall as if she had been burned, staring at the column with agitation. His voice sounded so real! Whether alive or ghost, she could almost believe he stood next to her once more...

Again the image of the shooting rose, threatening to choke her with tears. As if his death were not awful enough, now she was going mad, listening to imaginary voices.

Raoul chose that moment to re-enter the box, his breath sour with champagne. Christine let her expression fade back into nothingness, her hand trailing listlessly into her lap.

"Come on, darling." His voice sounded thin with defeat and disappointment. "We're going home."

Christine let Raoul raise her from the seat, sneaking a surreptitious glance at the column. Overactive imagination, that was all. It was time to go.

She preserved the facade of near-catatonia as they exited the Opera. Her mind pondered the auditory hallucination she had experienced. After the shock she'd endured, it was hardly surprising that her imagination and her nerves provided her with false information. She forcibly reminded herself that Erik had always been surrounded by an elegant aura of mystery which was indistinguishable from the supernatural. Attending the Opera and sitting in box five once again had also lent itself to the unconscious suggestion which caused her delusion. That, combined with the persona of the Phantom, had turned her head momentarily.

Despite their sensibility, her logical and reasonable self- reassurances did not comfort her as they should have. She still half-believed she'd heard... something...

She found herself staring out of the carriage's tiny window, wishing she had lingered to hear what more Erik's ghost had to say to her.

Raoul helped her out of the carriage and watched as the bustling nurse led her away. His trump card, his master scheme, had failed miserably. He clenched his fist with frustration and decided to see to the stabling of his horses personally. Work always helped ease his distress. He led the team into the stables, dismissing the coachman and also the sleepy stable-boy.

The salty, bitter-rich scent of horses quickly soothed him, and he found himself humming as he curried his favorite mare. Her teeth ground comfortably inside a nose-bag of oats, and Raoul thumped her shoulder with genuine affection.

"There's a good girl. Christine will be riding you within the week," he promised the animal. The chestnut mare swished her dark tail lazily, shifting one hoof in the clean straw.

With a final pat, Raoul let himself out of the stall and latched the swinging door. He put away the harnesses and tack, then carefully extinguished all the lanterns. He was in perhaps the best mood he'd seen since before the masked ball at which the Phantom appeared in the guise of Red Death.

Raoul cut through the garden on his way back inside.

Christine let the nurse dress her for bed, unresisting and silent. It was much easier this way. Preserving this act of unconscious indifference allowed her to escape Raoul's questions, his demands, his pity, and his love. She could not bear to think of speaking with him yet.

Perhaps she would never be able to bear it. Raoul had shot Erik just at the moment when she had finally determined to give herself to him. Now Erik was dead. How could she bear to live with Raoul, knowing that her beloved Angel died at his hand? How could she stand to let him touch her as a husband touches his wife, knowing that his fingers had pulled back the trigger and released the bullet which murdered Erik?

Murder. Both of her loves had hands stained with blood. It was her fault. If she had only made the right decision sooner, before it was too late!

She gazed sadly through the window, straight at the rising moon. Atmospheric diffraction distorted its image, making it appear huge and almost close enough to touch. A light breeze blew the scent of lilac and jasmine through her window, causing motion in the beautifully tended gardens.

Christine frowned, looking more closely at the trees and shrubs outside her boudoir. No, that wasn't it. The light breeze was hardly strong enough to move the branch she'd glimpsed from the corner of her eye, and besides, no wind could cause that shadow--

Christine fumbled away the blanket and swung her bare feet to the floor. She did not pause to find her slippers, stepping through the glazed, curtained door which led onto her room's private terrace. The night air was crisp and absolutely clear, with the faintest touch of chill. The moon shone so brightly she could vaguely distinguish color, particularly the crimson red of geraniums in planters on the edge of the wooden veranda. She stepped forth, her gauzy nightgown shifting slightly in the breeze. She strained her eyes, trying to see into the shadows which drowned the garden wall in obscurity.

She brushed through a loose hedge of rich, blue hydrangeas, their fragrant globes of blossom weighted by the dew and drooping almost to the grass. She stepped barefoot onto the smooth lawn, feeling dizzy. What awaited her in the shadows of the wall, pressed back against the mossy stones? What, or... who...

'Angel or father, friend or Phantom: who is it there, staring?' She almost sang the words aloud, as she had done in Perros. Poignant ecstasy swirled over her, just as it had that night long ago, drawing her forward again to the arms of her angel. Now he would be truly a phantom, the ghost of her memory, the angel of her childhood fantasies.

He called her silently and she obeyed in a dream, her slender arms lifting, white in moonlight. He was now truly the angel of death, and she would join him gladly, to be forever at his side where she belonged. The sound of a step penetrated her consciousness.

"Christine!" Raoul strode across the lawn in the moonlight. Only her inattention and his dark frock coat had allowed him to come so close without her noticing. "What in the world... you'll catch your death." He took her arms and attempted to make her turn back to the house.

Christine resisted him, staring into the black shadows desperately, her arms outstretched in supplication and denial, just as they had been when Erik fell into the river, to vanish into death. Disappointment rose heavily in her throat, breaking her blissful trance into a thousand dull, glassy shards of reality.

With a sound of frustration, Raoul lifted her bodily, ignoring her stiff-limbed resistance, carrying her back into her room. She must be sleepwalking, dreaming of the creature's death.

Christine felt the tears coalesce in her eyes and escape onto her cheeks. She was quite mad. Mad in the moonlight, a lunatic. Her head turned by night-breezes and sweet flowers. Haunted by a lost ghost.

Raoul stood holding her next to her bed and gazed, enchanted, at her in her thin, revealing gown. Her pale face was sweet with a childlike sorrow. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward to brush his mouth against hers. He tasted the salt of tears on her lips and his arms slid around her more protectively. He gently increased the pressure of his mouth, hoping to awaken his sleeping beauty with a true lover's kiss.

Christine felt as if she were made of wood, and she was momentarily unable to respond either with enthusiasm or with rejection. Her mind dully refused to comprehend this encounter. She stirred slightly, wishing only to escape.

Raoul's hand tenderly slipped to stroke her breast. He lowered his knee to the mattress, preparing to lie down and pull her next to him.

Christine felt her stomach turn. Erik had been the first to touch her that way. Now his murderer did the same, and he had the audacity to expect her to give him that which Erik had been denied by his bullet.

She began to cry helplessly, her body tightening in racking shivers, her childish sobs forcing their way around Raoul's gentle kiss.

He drew back with dismay, looking with astonishment at the weeping girl in his arms. Wounded, hurt beyond compare, he lowered her to the bed.

Christine curled into a tight ball and wept into her pillow, ignoring Raoul completely.

The Vicomte bit his tongue against curses. He closed her window firmly and shuttered it. He drew the curtains across her door. He pounded on the wall, to summon her nurse.

When the woman appeared, tousled and sleepy, Raoul ordered her to remain with Christine and explained that she had been sleepwalking. Then he went to his own cold bed.

Raoul lay awake the entire night, his consciousness consumed by a single realization of blazing fury: the monster had already forced himself on Christine, before Raoul had been able to arrive and rescue her. Only that could explain her intense distress at his gentle, loving advances. Only that could explain her continued retreat from the world of the living.

Raoul wished that Erik were still alive, so that he could torture his enemy and kill him again, this time in full-blooded passion, with the knowledge that it was richly deserved. His fists clenched and he bit blood from his cheek in rage.

Christine awakened late the next morning, her head filled with a throbbing ache. Her room was unbearably stuffy and close, the doors and windows securely shut. She remembered the previous evening, and winced. She glanced at her sleeping nurse, then kicked away the stifling blanket, hoping the woman would wake soon and open a window.

Raoul also rose late and gruffly dressed himself, refusing breakfast. He sent a scuttling maidservant to the vicarage with stern orders that she must return with the parish priest, an aging clergyman familiar to Raoul from infancy. Though priests often moved to other parishes, this one had spent a long time at the vicarage at Chagny. Now, fortuitously for Raoul and his eldest brother Phillipe, the priest served his Christian calling in Notre Dame, well within distance of their call.

Raoul felt a great fondness for the kindly, white-haired man who had baptized him as an infant, and instructed him in reading, writing, Latin, and all matters of spirituality. He would know how to help now. He must, for Raoul had no idea what could be done to help Christine.

Father Armand Reynard received his summons to the Chagny household with pleasure. He was one of only a few priests who did not actively covet the patronage of rich families; therefore it was ironic that he received that honor from many of them.

He straightened his cassock and rose without haste to answer the message, trading the cool dim interior of the cathedral for the bright, sunny summer morning.

Raoul paced his library, impatiently awaiting the priest. It was the unthinking custom of nobility to summon a clergyman rather than stirring oneself to go to confession in an actual church. The priest would then interrupt his duties to accommodate the noble's pleasure. It was an arrangement understood so well by both social classes that they had long ago ceased to think of it.

He heard the knocker clacking on the main entry door and fidgeted irritably at the wait while his butler went to escort the visitor in to him.

Father Reynard entered the library at last, his robes making an agreeable swish on the wooden parquet floor.

"Welcome, father." Raoul nodded with courtesy,

"It is a pleasure, my son." Reynard smiled at his parishioner fondly. "It is a long time since I heard from you last."

"I am afraid this is not a pleasant matter which I need to consult you for." Raoul told him bluntly.

The priest nodded. He heard enough gossip to be aware that Raoul was at odds with his eldest brother, Phillipe, the Comte de Chagny. Phillipe did not approve of Raoul's intent to marry a chorus girl. He had also heard several less than complimentary insinuations about Christine Daae, though he reserved judgment until he met the girl.

"I need to make my confession," Raoul sighed.

"Yes, my son." Father Reynard seated himself, gesturing for Raoul to kneel at his side.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Raoul knelt and easily slipped into the comforting ritual, one he had practiced ever since his childhood. He crossed himself automatically. "My last confession was several months ago." He paused, considering. "Since then, I have killed a man."

Father Reynard kept his composure out of long habit. This was not at all what he'd expected.

"This is a serious matter, my son. What were the circumstances?"

Raoul told him of Erik as quickly as possible, lingering on the malevolent aspect of Christine's phantom abductor. The priest nodded, absorbed with the tale, wondering at the oddity of the situation.

At last Raoul arrived at the murder, telling succinctly of what he had seen, and why it made him pull the trigger. As he described the moment and told how his shot had taken the Phantom squarely in the chest, he could not hide his guilt or his reluctant self-doubt from the keen perceptions of the clergyman.

Father Reynard steepled his fingers, considering the matter carefully. If Raoul were correct in all his assumptions (and the priest, a good judge of character, did not doubt that Raoul honestly believed all he had said), the murder was a sin he'd been forced to commit by circumstance.

On the other hand, there was bound to be a side to this matter which the Vicomte either did not know or simply did not care to consider. There were two other sides, actually, Christine Daae's and the Phantom Erik's.

Father Reynard sighed. These cases were always difficult, leaving his conscience pained by the burden of assigning justice when he was not in possession of knowledge of all the circumstances. Still, no matter what the full story might be, Raoul sincerely believed he had acted as he must to protect his betrothed wife. He must balance that fact against the serious nature of the sin when he assigned atonement.

"For your penance you will perform an act of charity," the priest decided. Raoul needed to gain insight into the plight of others less fortunate than he. "You should spend three months caring for the mad."

Raoul nodded, accepting the priest's choice.

"Now make an act of contrition, and I absolve you of your sin."

Raoul and the priest recited the prayer of contrition together, then rose.

"I would like to speak with Mademoiselle Daae," Father Reynard told Raoul gently as the left the library.

Raoul shook his head pessimistically. "She's not speaking to anyone since it happened," he sighed. "The doctor said she's in shock."

The priest nodded. "Perhaps I can help."

Raoul shrugged and led him to Christine's door, leaving him there with a polite half-bow.

"Good morning, mademoiselle," Father Reynard spoke cordially to Christine as he entered her room, noting her sad eyes and pinched face with compassion.

Christine maintained an indifferent facade, staring through him to the wall. A priest, of all things. After the events of last night, she wondered whether Raoul might intend to have this clergyman marry them this very day, even though he had no reason to think that she was no longer catatonic.

Father Reynard brushed past her bed, pushing up the window and opening the shutters. "That's much better, isn't it. There's a lovely breeze."

He sat at her side, looking down at her kindly. "Would you like to speak to me?"

Christine considered. As a priest, he was obliged to keep the confidences entrusted to him in the confessional. He would not be able to discuss their conversation with Raoul.

"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned," Christine whispered.

Father Reynard grew intent. She was not comatose, as the Vicomte had said. This was a significant indication that something was badly wrong, most likely due to her witnessing Raoul's act of violence.

"Confess, child," he spoke comfortingly.

"I have betrayed my betrothed husband," Christine murmured, her cheeks flushing red. "I love another man."

The priest nodded, encouraging her to go on. Christine recovered her composure and continued. She picked at the coverlet, her cheeks scarlet. "Raoul saw us together, and shot him," she spoke flatly. "I believe he thought Erik meant to rape me, but that wasn't true. I was..." she swallowed defiantly, "... willing." She glanced up fiercely to meet the priest's neutral eyes. "Erik would never have touched me without my consent. He did not deserve to die!"

"Child," the priest patted her hand soothingly. "The Vicomte has spoken to me of these things. He said that Erik also committed murder, with little reason."

Christine bowed her head, considering that statement. "No," she said at last. "Erik has killed, I admit that. But not without what he believed to be adequate reason. Did Raoul tell you of him?"

The priest shook his head noncommittally, his interest piquing.

"Then I will." Christine drew a deep breath and plunged into the tale of Erik's life. She drew an eloquent picture of his days in darkness, of the incredible prejudice and rejection he met every day of his life.

Father Reynard listened with pity to her recital of Erik's own description of his mother, who masked him on the very day of his birth. His eyes filled with tears as he heard of the innocent and brilliant boy caged and exploited, whipped savagely if he refused to perform. He shuddered as she recounted Erik's vague, dark hints of his days of service to the Shah of Persia.

Christine completed her tale with Erik's sojourn at the Opera, telling how he had helped design the building and how he adopted it as his home, frightening people away only to preserve his safety and solitude. She felt herself choking with tears midway into her description of their days together.

"He respected me," she murmured miserably. "He wanted to give me everything. He only killed because he was driven to it, by the fact that I loved Raoul instead..."

She paused for a long moment, regaining control. "He never had the benefit of love. Nobody cared enough to think of the salvation of his soul. He never knew friendship or tenderness. He was almost like a child, one who has never been forced to face the consequences of his actions. By that I mean that he was never disciplined with love, and as a result, he never developed a true conscience." Christine sighed, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown.

"But then... he let me go. He meant to kill Raoul, to make me stay with him. But he didn't. He released us. He put my hand into Raoul's, and sent us away together. He grew up on his own, somehow, in that moment. And also, in that moment," she hesitated, moistening her dry lips. "I think that was when I began to realize how much I loved him."

She trailed away, knowing she sounded lame. She shrugged with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I've taken up too much of your time." Her anguish was plain on her face, floods of tears gleaming unshed in her blue eyes.

Father Reynard shook his head. "Not at all," he patted her hand. "You needed to say those things." He paused, looking down at her gravely. "Christine, do you still intend to marry Raoul?"

She drew a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know," she answered sincerely. "He killed Erik. I don't know if I can bear to live with him, knowing that."

The priest nodded, his guess confirmed. He gazed at her compassionately. "You must find the strength within yourself to tell him that honestly."

Christine sighed, examining her hands. "Father..."

"Yes," he smiled gently.

"I'm going mad." Christine laughed shortly at his startled expression. "It's true. I hear Erik's voice. I thought I sensed him in the garden last night. I thought he'd come to take me away. I wanted to die, to be with him." She drew a shaky breath. "I know he's not alive, yet I can't help but think he was there, and that he wanted me to come out to him--"

She stopped, meeting the priest's concerned stare. "Am I going mad? Or... is it him? Could he come back?"

"Surely neither of those possibilities need concern you," he reassured her, patting her hand with genuine sympathy. "It's only your imagination. It's quite normal."

Christine's face fell and she nodded almost imperceptibly.

Father Reynard finished the ritual of confession and let himself out of Christine's room, his face thoughtful. Raoul's description of Erik's death had left little to the imagination. There was no possibility that he had been in the garden, calling her. Christine Daae must truly love the Opera Ghost to let her mind play such a trick on her. He felt great sympathy for her sorrow, but there was little he could do.

Raoul met him, questioning with his eyes.

Monsieur Reynard had too much conscience to lie, but innocent misunderstanding was hardly a sin. He shook his head, an accurate enough expression of his feelings.

The Vicomte interpreted the gesture as the priest had known he would. Raoul sighed, his face weary. With courtesy, he escorted the priest away. He then sent his manservant to make inquiries as to where and how he could serve his penance.

The priest returned to Notre Dame, so preoccupied he hardly noticed the bright sunlight and the pleasant bustle of the crowded streets. Entering the building, he genuflected and strolled forward into the nave, his eyes fixing thoughtfully on the gilt pipes of the enormous organ. A pipe organ, such as the one Christine referred to in her story.

Father Reynard had never cultivated musical skill aside from the chants it was necessary for him to lead in Mass. Still, he admired the fine musical instrument and its gleaming keyboards. He enjoyed the rumbling voice of the organ daily.

He sighed and shooed away an altar-boy, interrupting him as he travelled about tending the hundreds of candles. As always, he had let himself become too deeply involved in the personal problems of his parishioners. It was his chief fault as a priest, one which had perhaps prevented him from achieving the rank of Bishop.

Father Reynard shook his head, regretting that a genius such as the one Christine described had died without the opportunity to make a final confession, and very likely without the benefit of religion at all. He wondered idly where the man would be buried. Perhaps not at all. The river had washed him away. Neither Raoul nor Christine had mentioned the disposition of his body.

Erik, though he was of dubious background and character, deserved a decent burial, Father Reynard decided. Every man had the right to be buried properly. He would see to it himself, to spare young Chagny and Mademoiselle Daae the guilt and grief of that responsibility.

He checked the time, deciding that he had more than enough before he must listen to confession. He would go to the Opera and consult the managers. If need be, he would go into the cellars himself and see what he could discover.

Christine sat still in her soft bed, struggling to hold back tears. She'd been such a fool to hope she'd heard him. It was all her imagination. She was a victim of wistful thinking.

She tried to think seriously about what she should do. With Erik dead, her options were reduced. She could remain at the Opera-- possibly, if she could recover from the scandal and insults she had brought on the managers. It was possible they would not permit her to resume her previous position there. If they did not, she could go with Raoul. Two options, each of them doubtful at best.

Christine swallowed thickly, feeling stifled. In either case, a huge piece of her life had withered and fallen away when Erik toppled back into the river. She would never again hear his voice lifted in song. He would never speak her name unexpectedly at her shoulder, startling her half out of her wits. He would never touch her again like he had--

Enough. She must decide what to do. It was all very well to lie here in a bed which did not belong to her, turning Raoul away with carefully feigned catatonia. But she could not do it forever.

What would she choose? Wealth, social status, and a handsome husband whom she currently could not bear to look at or speak to? The Opera, with the resultant rumors and inevitable unpleasantness which would result from her return now that Erik was no longer present to protect her? It was the career she loved, the one Erik had prepared her for. That life contained his fondest hopes for her future, his plans for her triumph. How could she abandon it?

She could not stop the tears. She must decide soon.

As she sat there miserably, wiping her eyes on the sheet, Raoul opened the door, coming in to check on her.

"Christine," he spoke warmly, glad to see her moving about on her own. "Darling." He rushed to her bedside and knelt, his hand on her wrist.

"Why did you do it, Raoul?" Christine's voice trembled. "He was going to bring me back to you."

Raoul stared at her, not comprehending. "What?"

"He would have done whatever I asked," Christine's voice shook wildly. "If I'd asked him to cut off his own arm or leap off a precipice, he would have done it gladly. He would have returned me to you, as soon..." her voice trailed away. Even now she was reluctant to reveal her near betrayal of their engagement vows.

"As soon as he had his way with you!" Raoul supplied, his voice tense with anger. "Did you expect me to stand by and let that happen?"

Christine raised furious, streaming eyes to Raoul. "You didn't have to kill him!"

"I really can't believe what I'm hearing," he told her, his voice pained. "You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do." She wiped at her tears. "If you'd only stepped out and spoken, he'd have--"

"He'd have murdered us both," Raoul asserted aggressively. "He was mad, Christine!" He surged to his feet, pacing with agitation. "I couldn't bear to see him putting his hands on you. Especially after you'd just finished begging him not to!"

Christine bowed her head, her anger banished by shame. Raoul did not understand the truth of what he had interrupted. He trusted her so implicitly... she did not deserve his trust. Or perhaps his certainty of her faithfulness was merely an insult to Erik, based on the Phantom's ugliness. In either case, it simply didn't matter to Christine any longer. She would tell him the truth.

"I did not--" she began, miserably.

Raoul did not seem to hear her, preoccupied, not pausing in his rapid circuit of the room. "He's gone now, anyway." He interrupted her. "Can we just try to forget this, Christine? I'm so pleased to see you're all right again. I want to marry you as soon as possible." He dropped to one knee at her bedside once more, his eyes shining.

Christine could not meet his gaze. He did not want to hear what she had to say. He ignored her efforts to speak the truth. He wanted to marry her. Erik was dead.

"But, Raoul--" she tried to speak once more, in vain.

"Don't, Christine," he requested with painful sincerity. "I...." he bit his lip. She meant to tell him that he had been too late. He would not put her through that torment. "I don't care about any... unfortunate circumstances, do you hear me? I love you. I won't be happy till you're my wife."

Christine gave up, feeling her heart grow numb. She must marry him. She owed him that happiness. Besides, what other choice did she have?

"All right," she whispered faintly, turning her head aside. Her resistance was crushed. "If that's what you want, Raoul, I'll marry you."

He lifted her hand, kissing it ecstatically. "I love you, Christine."

She nodded vaguely, her eyes wandering to the window and the white, puffy clouds gathering on the horizon, threatening an evening storm. Even now she could sense the oppressive building of thunder and lightning behind those deceptively delicate white billows.

"I don't know why you're troubling yourself," Monsieur Gilles Andre paused in his search through the box receipts, looking over his spectacles at Father Reynard. "The Opera Ghost is dead. Good riddance to him, I say."

"He deserves to be buried properly," Father Reynard was conscious of having to hold onto his temper, resisting the temptation to be insulted by Andre's obvious callousness. "Every man deserves as much, Monsieur."

"Not a murderer," Firmin snapped. "Begging your pardon, Father." He sat in a straight-backed chair, adjusting his cravat. "The Opera ghost was less than a man. He was a murderer, a thief. He was an animal." His voice dripped with contempt.

"I will go to the cellars to look for his body, nonetheless," Reynard's voice was steely. "Will you be so kind as to provide an escort, Messieurs?"

Andre flapped a careless hand. "One of the stage-hands should be glad to go with you, Monsieur, or perhaps a fireman."

"I see," Father Reynard answered, his voice cold. "I shall remember your kindness." He strode out of the office, his black priest's frock rustling with the speed of his passage.

Andre and Firmin traded harassed looks and a shake of heads, and renewed their task of counting the previous evening's receipts.

Father Reynard continually found himself amazed and disgusted by the human capacity for indifference. The Opera managers were absolute opportunists, not caring at all even for the players under their charge. They cared only for money. He smirked slightly, recalling the tale of Christ and the temple money changers. Gilles Andre and Firmin Richard would do well to make a study of that section of the scriptures.

He strode down to the stage of the Opera, glancing automatically at the ongoing ballet rehearsal. The managers hadn't even told him how he might enter the cellars to achieve his purpose.

"Your pardon, Madame." he addressed an authoritative middle- aged woman, respectably dressed in a rusty black dress. The woman's hair was pulled into a severe bun on her head and she held a cane in one hand. She had been watching the ballet attentively, and he guessed she was in charge of their rehearsal.

"Father," she greeted him pleasantly, with a reserved smile.

"I seek entry to the cellars," he told her. "Do you know the way?"

Her smile melted away in an instant. "I do. But I do not know what would call a man of the cloth to go there."

"I'm looking for the body of a dead man," he met her eyes firmly. "I want to see that he receives his right to burial."

She glanced away, her lip quivering momentarily with emotion. "Perhaps it would be better this time to let the dead rest undisturbed, Father."

"Not if finding his body and putting it to rest will ease the minds of the living, Madame. There are two of my young parishioners who have need of such."

Madame Giry nodded sadly. "Christine and Raoul," she whispered. "Their involvement in this has been most unfortunate."

"Indeed." He glanced at the splendid auditorium. "Will you show me the way?"

"I will." She turned her attention to the stage and clapped sharply to attract the attention of her dancers. "I will return soon. Continue the warm-up exercises. If I find any of you shirking when I return..." she let the threat trail off, implying terrible consequences for any who did not heed her warning.

Madame Giry led Father Reynard backstage, to a small darkly lit corridor with a barred door. "This door leads into the cellars," she gestured to it. "Be careful, Father. There are many passages, and it is easy to lose your way." She reached into her pocket, producing a spool of stout thread. "Perhaps you should use this. Tie it to the door and unroll it behind you," she suggested. "I would come, but I must return to rehearsal." She hesitated. "Come to see me before you leave, so that I will know you made your way out safely. If you cannot find me on your own, ask for Madame Giry."

She pressed the spool into his hand and hurried away, leaving him to eye the door doubtfully. Small wisps of mist edged their way from beneath it, leaving the corridor damp. A lantern flickered near the end of the corridor, and he borrowed it without a pang of remorse.

He lifted the heavy iron bar and pulled the stout oaken door open with an effort. Whatever might be lurking in the cellars, obviously precautions had been taken to keep it there.

Heavy, cold mist flowed through the door, settling to the floor of the corridor. He heard a scuttle of rats as he stepped into the cavernous passage. It was not natural, rough earth as he had expected. Instead the walls were made of carefully hewn gray stone blocks skillfully mortared together.

His lantern pushed the darkness back only slightly, illuminating the floor beneath him and the walls on either side..

He hardly knew how to begin his search for the underground lake. Downward, he supposed. Tying Madame Giry's string to the door, he moved forward with caution.

It took him over an hour of backtracking, winding and unwinding his string, to find his way down to the lake. This was definitely the source of the malevolent fog, he decided as he watched the wispy moisture curling thickly from the water's surface. He stared out at the lake with dismay. There was no way he could search such a vast expanse of water without a boat, particularly not in this fog.

Perhaps the man's body had washed up on the lake shore, he theorized hopefully. Surely he could follow the shoreline safely.

He glanced at the dwindling spindle of string. Setting his lantern aside, he placed the spool on the floor and anchored it conspicuously with a loose stone.

The priest cautiously set out around the lake, trying to keep his sense of humor as a guard against the dank, oppressive atmosphere. The whole place smelled of death. He shuddered involuntarily. God alone knew what eyes could be watching his slow, painful progress.

Slogging through ankle deep mud slime, Father Reynard heartily wished that just this once he hadn't allowed himself to become personally involved with his parishioners' problems. "I should mind my own business," he told himself softly, the fog damping his whisper.

He searched for a long time in the trackless darkness on either side of his thread, and found no trace of the entrance to the river caverns, the Phantom's secret lair, or his body. Finally, thoroughly tired, he decided to let the matter rest. The chill had crept into his lungs, making him cough, and he had grown to fear that his lantern might burn out before he could get out of the catacombs. He turned back and made his way to the place where he had left his spool of string.

Staring out at the lake, the spool in his hand, he sighed. If this was all the funeral the man would get, at least he could say a prayer. He pronounced a quiet benediction, commending Erik's soul to the justice of merciful God.

A soft, evil riff of laughter echoed behind him, freezing his blood.

"Who's there?" He whirled, ashamed by the squeak of fear in his voice.

A cloaked, menacing shape coalesced silently in the misted darkness. The black shrouded phantasm held up one long, elegant hand, displaying a neat coil of string in its palm. Its trailing edge fell between them and rose, twining into the spindle held in the priest's nerveless hand.

Father Reynard's heart rose into his throat. His guide to the exit was gone. Trying to maintain his calm, he held out the spool.

The Phantom did not condescend to take it.

Reynard tried to steady himself, repeating a Hail Mary silently. He did not believe in ghosts. This was only a man who stood before him. A man who had somehow unthinkably survived both the Vicomte de Chagny's bullet and an unconscious fall into the frigid, turbulent black waters of a subterranean river, but a man nonetheless.

"Merciful God," the apparition broke the uncomfortable silence, repeating the priest's words thoughtfully. "Merciful God." This time the tone distinctly mocked Father Reynard.

The priest drew a deep breath, shaking himself from his initial wonderment at the celestial voice, so inconsistent with the aura of menace emanating from the man's posture.

"God shows no mercy to those who enter my kingdom," the man informed him silkily, stepping to block Reynard's path into the upward passage. "You stand before the devil's throne in Hell. What mercy will he show you, priest?"

"I came to seek a man's body for burial," Father Reynard told him shakily, eyeing the cruelly graceful hands as they wove a hypnotic web of gesture, dipping into the voluminous cloak to produce... what? Father Reynard could not quite see it. "I seek no quarrel with you," he assured the specter, taking a prudent step backward.

"There is no body for you to bury, priest." The Phantom's voice sounded almost tired behind its calculated menace. "It is unfortunate indeed that you came down alone to discover that."

Now those hands clearly twined some invisible thing between them. Reynard tried to swallow his hammering heart. The Punjab lasso Christine had described, without doubt.

"If there is no body, then I see no reason to mention the results of my search," Reynard improvised hastily. "I will go immediately, and keep your secret."

The laughter sounded again, a note of actual humor present behind it this time.

"How I wish I could trust you, Monsieur." Erik taunted the priest. "In my death lay my safety. Now it lies in your death also."

"I would tell no one," the priest assured him again, casting about for some way to survive this encounter. "Except," he watched Erik's hands warily, "Christine Daae, perhaps."

His words clearly struck home, causing the Phantom's fingers to tighten on the lasso.

"Do you sell your soul in a deal with the devil?" Erik mused almost angrily, looking down at the lasso in his hands. "Do you betray an innocent girl, or do you betray yourself with a lie?" His head snapped up, accusing, the motion causing his hood to fall back. The lantern light fell on his mask, leaving the remainder of his face in shadow.

"I do not lie." Reynard found himself feeling compassion for the torment in the man's voice. "Nor do I betray Christine Daae. Instead, I bear news which will relieve the greatest grief her soul has ever known." He felt Erik's indecision. "Will you slay the courier who bears such a message to her?"

Erik stared at him directly, his resolve wavering.

"You have already gone to see her, haven't you," Father Reynard murmured. "In the Vicomte's villa, where you saw her lying wrapped in your own cloak. She stared through the wall as though it were not there. She clearly thought you dead. You lured her into the garden, but the boy intervened before you could reveal yourself to her."

Erik turned away, refusing to let the priest see the pain in his eyes.

"She told me. She said that if you had come to take her with you into death, she would have gone willingly." The priest found courage to step forward and place his hand on Erik's shoulder. "Let me tell her, Monsieur. I have no doubt she will return to you."

Erik shook his head, refusing to let the pain of hope bow his proud shoulders. "She belongs with the boy," he spoke hollowly. "I went to her in a moment of weakness. I will not condemn her to a life of hiding and solitude with a monster."

"Do not take such harsh words to yourself. She belongs with you." Father Reynard wondered how in the world he could begin to comfort this tormented, lonely man. "She doesn't care about your face, do you hear?"

"Go," Erik sighed, relenting. "But do not bother her with your insignificant story. The Phantom of the Opera is dead." He stared at the priest bleakly. "Go," he repeated, pointing to a passage. "Straight, to the third left, the second right, and then up the stair."

The priest did not miss the catch of pain in Erik's voice and the slight hitch in his graceful movement as he lifted his left arm to indicate the direction.

"But you are not well," he frowned. "You were shot in the chest."

"It is nothing," Erik dismissed him. "The boy is not half the marksman he fancies himself. It will heal, in time."

Father Reynard left hesitantly, glancing back over his shoulder to the spot where Erik's silhouette faded into the darkness.

The directions proved true, and he left the cellars with a distinct feeling of relief. He passed Madame Giry in the auditorium, giving the aging lady a nod. The mistress of the ballet returned it with relief, glad to see him safe.

Raoul presented himself at the cathedral of Notre Dame the very next morning, the absolute picture of buoyant spirits. He strode respectfully into the church, giving his opulent surroundings an approving glance. He picked up a missal, toying with it absently.

"Father Reynard," he greeted the priest cordially.

Reynard glanced at him uneasily. Raoul was too happy. Had Christine not told him of her true feelings? He had not yet had a chance to go to speak with her. He could not decide whether to obey the Phantom's stern request, or to do as he thought best and tell her of Erik's survival.

Raoul continued, blithely oblivious to the priest's uncharacteristic discomfiture. "Christine has come out of her shock. We're to be married. I want to publish the banns this morning. I hoped you would officiate at the ceremony, Father."

Father Reynard swallowed with difficulty, thinking of Christine's pale, sorrowful face and Erik's stern, graceful self- sacrifice. "You honor me, Monsieur," he managed. "When is it to be?"

"At your earliest convenience," Raoul laughed, unable to contain his pleasure.

"And your brother?" Father Reynard attempted to sound neutral.

Raoul shrugged, his effervescent mood wavering. "It is not my brother's decision to make." He roused himself from the moment of depression. "Christine is outside, if you would like to see her."

They strolled out of the church together, Raoul talking happily, not noticing the priest's depressed silence.

Christine was dressed in a pale blue cotton frock. She sat on a dainty chestnut mare, her face too pallid and her expression distant. She mustered a wan smile for the priest.

"Father," she murmured.

"My child," he returned the greeting politely. "It is good to see you looking so well."

She nodded, biting at her lip. She turned her face slightly, the flared hood of her light cape shading her eyes from the brilliant sun. Raoul took her hand possessively, holding the reins of her horse so it could not dance on the cobbles.

"Would you like to make confession, Mademoiselle?" Father Reynard invited her gently, glancing at Raoul. Christine nodded faintly. "It won't take long," the priest assured Raoul.

The Vicomte settled his hands on her waist and lifted her down from the mare. He gave her his arm, supporting her into the church.

The priest entered the confessional. "If you will excuse us now, Monsieur le Vicomte," he dismissed Raoul with a smile and a nod.

Christine knelt on the velvet padded hassock, her head bending forward and her glowing brunette curls eclipsing her ashen face. "I could not tell him, Father," she whispered. "Erik is dead. I promised my hand to Raoul months ago. I will fulfill my promise."

Father Reynard sighed, leaning closer to the small window which pierced the lattice separating them. He could not lie to her. "Your Erik is not dead," he told her gently.

"What?" She stared up at him with dazed intensity.

"I went to the Opera to see if his body could be retrieved for burial," he explained. "I saw him there."

Christine caught her breath, hanging on his words with desperate elation. "Yes," she breathed, urging him to continue.

"I spoke with him at some length," Father Reynard did not feel compelled to recount every detail of their meeting. "He let me leave on the condition that I tell no one of his survival."

"No one?" Christine gasped in tones of muted anguish.

"No one," Reynard met her eyes steadily. "He did not want to spoil your life with Raoul."

Her tears overflowed onto her white cheeks. "What will I do," she breathed, wringing her hands. Which promise would she break? She had pledged so much to each of them: her love to Erik, and her hand to Raoul. She buried her face in her hands.

"Why does it have to be so hard?" she wept. "Why must there be two of them? Why must I hurt one to please the other?"

Father Reynard sighed, wishing he could give her an easy answer to her dilemma. "Child, you must make a careful decision and keep to it." He leaned forward, his eyes filled with tender concern. "Your unpredictable changes of intention hurt each of them more than anything else you could do. Either choose Raoul, or choose Erik. The other will go on to live his life as best he can."

Christine nodded miserably, accepting the truth of the priest's observation. She sat quite still, thinking. "Thank you," she whispered at last. "I will make my choice."

She rose and left the confessional.

Christine emerged from the cathedral and found Raoul awaiting her on the steps. He led her down to their horses. "I would like to go back to my own flat," she requested softly.

"You haven't been there for weeks," Raoul protested. "It will be cold."

She did not answer, but she let him hoist her onto the mare, patting the chestnut's proudly arched neck and taking the reins.

Raoul could see she had been crying, for her cheeks and her nose were red and puffy. He stopped resisting her wishes, mounted his own horse, and led her off toward her flat.

They arrived after twenty minutes of riding, and Christine slipped off the dainty mare without waiting for Raoul's assistance. She straightened her skirts and climbed the stairs into her building, not pausing to see if he followed.

He tethered their horses to a lamppost, reluctant to leave them alone but accepting the necessity.

Raoul moved swiftly enough to catch her as she turned her key in the lock and entered her flat. The room was dim and musty. She struck a match and lit a reed, sighing unconsciously with the relief of being home.

Raoul enjoyed the sight of her lifting the blazing reed up to touch the blackened wicks beneath the glass globes of the oil lamps. She cupped the living flame protectively with a shell-like palm, the light glowing through her fingers.

He moved up behind her, reaching around her to lift the globe of one lamp for her.

Christine jerked, startled, dropping the reed. The flame flickered out, leaving a small black patch on her hand-woven wool rug. With an exclamation of dismay she dropped to her knees, scrubbing at the burned patch with her fingers.

"It's all right," he lowered himself to one knee beside her. "No harm done." He picked up her hands and kissed her fingertips, smiling.

Christine was astonished at the strength of the resentment his simple gesture inspired in her. She found herself glaring at him, pulling back coldly. He blinked at her with honest surprise.

"It was my mother's rug," Christine whispered, letting her eyes fall to the burned spot.

"I'll buy you another," Raoul promised, reaching out to touch her hand.

Christine's shoulders sagged. Of course that would be his solution. "My mother wove that rug," she murmured, not meeting his eyes. The sudden urge to weep flooded her, and her eyes prickled with tears.

Raoul sat back on his heels, puzzled by her sullen attitude. "What's done is done," he tried to soothe her. "Please, don't be so upset."

Christine shook her head, sighing.

"I need to be alone for a while, Raoul." She twisted one of the rug's tassels between her fingers. "I've been through a lot. I need time to think."

"Are you sure, darling?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" She spoke a little too loudly.

"Christine--"

"Please." She sighed. "Just a day or two."

He stared at her with dismay, trying to understand. A whole day? He'd thought she would ask for an hour. What could she possibly be up to, to require his absence for so long?

"The horses are waiting outside," she reminded him. "You'd better see to them, Raoul."

"Christine, I don't understand..." he rose, his hat in his hand, frowning at her. He did not want to seem insensitive, but it was ridiculous to leave her alone so soon after an illness, with her on the verge of tears.

"I'm fine, Raoul. Really." She gave him an insincere, too- bright smile. "Tomorrow."

Reluctantly he let her steer him to her door. He stepped into the street and took up the reins of his horse, leading her mare with him. He thought back wistfully to the days of his childhood, when he and Christine had sat at her father's feet, listening raptly to his fascinating tales. Raoul's favorite had been that of little Lotte. He had smiled when Monsieur Daae spun his story, recognizing Lotte to be a thinly disguised Christine: an innocent who thought of everything and nothing, charmingly indecisive.

Now she had changed. She was no longer the guileless, happy girl he remembered. He had Erik to blame for that.

His jaw set angrily. He would marry Christine and give her the fairy tale world of her childhood dreaming. He would shower her with love and gifts and make it possible for her to abandon all her terrible memories and melancholy thoughts, so that she might become again the carefree girl he had once known.

Christine let the lace curtain fall back into place as soon as she was certain Raoul had left her street. She relaxed at last, leaning her head against the carven windowframe. There was so much to consider... she pushed all her thoughts away, methodically going about the preparations for making a cup of tea.

At last she set back on her comfortable couch, balancing the cup and saucer in her hands. The warmth of the water permeated the thin bone china. She set the saucer away and wrapped her hands about the cup, feeling faintly like a child with hot cocoa.

The fragrant sips of hot tea soothed her nerves. She kicked off her shoes and lifted her legs to the couch, bending her knees and slipping her feet beneath a pale violet throw pillow.

This was the best way to think, comfortable and undisturbed. She poured herself a second cup of tea and sipped it at a slower pace. Leaning back against the arm of the couch, she let her eyes close and tried to make her mind clear. It would not.

Erik. She experienced a surge of elation. Erik alive. All that she had thought lost to her was lost no more. He survived to sing for her, to love her, to look out for her.

She remembered lying in his arms, a sensation so comfortable and so fulfilling it had astonished her. She remembered the touch of his sadly misshapen mouth, so soft and gentle against her skin, his exploring kisses igniting her flesh wherever they ventured. Even now thinking about him made her heartbeat quicken, sending a soft flush through her cheeks.

How did she feel when she thought of Raoul? She used to feel a pleasant nostalgia whenever he held her hand. His kisses had once warmed her heart. However, even in their most tender moments together she had never felt a passion approaching that which Erik roused in her. And lately, since Erik was shot, she had hardly been able to bear the thought of Raoul touching her at all.

She sighed, wishing she had not reaffirmed her promise to him. But she had felt so lonesome, so bewildered, and she had not known where to turn. Now everything was different.

Christine finished her cooling tea, setting her cup into the saucer with a slight clinking sound. There was no point in tormenting herself with these guilty considerations. Without a doubt, she would go to Erik. Perhaps she had always known she would, in the end.

Her decision acknowledged, she rose and went into her room. The catacombs were cold, and she would need a heavier dress.

She found herself fussing needlessly over her appearance, and laughed softly at her own childish anticipation. Which mattered more, that she look her best or that she hurry to him as soon as possible?

She would compromise. She ran a brush through her hair, the long brunette strands alive with the subdued crackle of electricity. Quickly she touched at her makeup and twisted her wayward curls into a simple chignon, securing it with a delicate ivory comb carved in the shape of a rose. This, along with a dark blue frock, completed her dressing.

She fumbled her gloves onto her fingers, rushing out the door without remembering to blow out the lamps.

Christine hurried to Notre Dame. It was not far out of her way, and she wanted to ask Father Reynard where he had met Erik.

Father Reynard was not surprised when she entered the cathedral. He set his work aside swiftly, going out to her. After a few moments of soft conversation, they left together, heading for the Opera.

After a few moments, a third figure emerged from a side street, pursuing them.

Christine led the priest through the Opera to her dressing room, her steps light and quick. She opened the mirror, which had been replaced, and lit the lantern she found there. The panel of glass closed quietly behind them.

She stepped hesitantly forward, lifting her lantern against the darkness. The priest's presence at her back was a distinct comfort, and she was suddenly glad he'd insisted she allow him to accompany her.

The penetrating darkness and damp mist of the lower cellars enveloped them completely as they continued forth. Father Reynard watched her with admiration. She was quite certain of her way through the twisting corridors and passages, and soon she brought them to the lake. If he was any judge, this was a shore he had not seen on his previous visit.

Christine glanced at him, questioning, and he shook his head. "I believe the Phantom... Erik... found me because of a string which I had unwound behind me, to mark my way," he explained. "He found me, not I him."

Christine nodded, accepting the truth of that statement. She wondered if they should try to enter Erik's old lair. It hardly seemed likely that he would remain in it after the mob had discovered it and ravaged his possessions. Erik liked his privacy and secrecy, and the lair could no longer be considered secret from anyone.

She pondered, idly tapping her toe against a stone. An idea struck her. If she were to sing, it would surely draw him out of hiding. If he were near enough to hear her, that is.

Christine handed her lantern to the priest, who watched curiously as she loosened the tie of her cloak so that it did not restrict her throat. She drew a few deep breaths, quenched a growing nervous anticipation, and began to sing Aminta's aria from Don Juan Triumphant.

Softly at first, then with growing confidence, her voice spread and carried over the dark still waters.

Father Reynard listened with pleasure to her exquisitely trained soprano. He cast a glance around, thinking the Phantom Erik might creep up on them, unseen. His gaze did not complete its circle, for his attention was riveted by a strange sight: As Christine's voice spread over the glassy lake, the mist pulled back, rising and flowing away to reveal the arched vault of the ceiling. It was almost as if her voice constituted an invisible hand that fanned away the fog.

He finally glanced at her again. Christine stood as if possessed, the song pouring from her in a glorious daze of music. It was almost painful to watch the aria end, to see her released from the trance of the beautiful notes only to stand exhausted. She had put so much of herself into the effort to call Erik! She glanced around plaintively, her eyes seeking the Phantom in vain.

Father Reynard stepped in front of her and patted her shoulder, comforting her. "Perhaps he did not hear," he suggested. "Do you think we should go to the river caverns?"

Christine's eyes focused on something beyond him. He turned to the lake, and was surprised to see a low, dark shape gliding slowly toward them.

"The boat," she whispered. "He's sent it for me."

Father Reynard caught the boat as it grounded on the shore with a soft scrape. It was completely empty, with a pole tucked beneath the seats, and he could not imagine how the Phantom had contrived to send it to them.

Christine stepped into the boat and sat without hesitation. Her eyes shone brightly in the lantern light.

Uncertainly the priest stepped in as well, not entirely sure that he was included in this silent invitation. However, he would not let the girl go into possible danger without him. That, and also he did not know the way out. The motion of his embarkation pushed the small gondola from the shore, and it floated on the water, absolutely still.

A slight pause ensued, and Father Reynard began to wonder if it had only been coincidence that sent the boat drifting to shore at that moment. Then, with a momentary queasiness, he detected motion, and could see the shore receding.

He had never been fond of boating. He swallowed audibly, hoping the trip would be a short and smooth one. There was still no sign or sound that explained the motion of the little boat, and he could see that Christine took this in stride without even thinking of it.

They approached a small wharf, the wood grey-brown in the lantern light. The boat slowed, nudging up against one side of it. Christine stepped out, her confidence clearly that of long habit and familiarity with this strange routine. Reynard imitated her rather less gracefully, feeling a little sweat gather beneath his collar as the boat rocked ominously.

When he gained the safety of the wharf he breathed a sigh of relief, quickly following her as she strode forward along the blank wall. She touched one stone, pressing delicately, and a section of the block wall swung inward, revealing a short passage, at the end of which stood a startlingly ordinary, though ornate, front-door.

Father Reynard was struck by the irony of this, but did not allow it to preoccupy him. Christine stepped forward and tapped at the inner door timidly. He could see her trembling, her shoulders rising and falling quickly with her breathing.

This door also swung open without a sound, revealing a candlelit room containing a rich carpet and little more, except for the sconces built into the walls and the lighted candles they contained.

Christine stepped in. All Erik's furniture had gone, probably taken by the managers of the Opera. She stared about indignantly, tears gathering in her eyes.

Her room. Perhaps they still hadn't found her room.

With the priest in tow, she hurried to her chamber, past the devastation wrought by the jealous greed and hatred of Carlotta, Andre, and Firmin. She activated the counterweight with the ease of long practice. She was wild with impatience. Every room she'd entered had shown itself empty, both of her memories and of that which she truly sought: Erik.

Her room was untouched. It was dark but for a single candle, standing lit on her bedtable.

Christine stepped in, her eyes fastening to the dark shade which awaited her at one side of the room.

"Erik!" Her voice was a sob, and she flew forward. His arms opened to receive her. She hugged him, weeping onto his shoulder, and he paused briefly in caressing her hair to direct a cool stare at Father Reynard.

"I could not lie to her, Monsieur," the priest shrugged uncomfortably. He was now quite certain that he was not welcome.

Erik's glance dismissed him with indifference, as he returned his attention to Christine. He put his hand up to stroke her cheek. Christine turned her face into it, covering his palm with tiny, clinging kisses. He laid his cheek on her hair, holding her close.

The priest, despite his embarrassment, found that he approved of the sight of these two together. As dark and forbidding as Erik might seem in contrast to the slight, fragile Christine, the two were undefinably right together. His mystery matured her while her innocence brightened him, Father Reynard decided. Also, there was a tender communion here that did not exist between Christine and Raoul, an understanding give-and-take which he had seen before, usually among his more happily married parishioners.

Christine did not cease to kiss her dark Phantom, her arms sliding into his suit jacket. She pressed against him tightly, standing on tiptoe to let her mouth seek his.

Father Reynard backed away toward the door, knowing that despite the moral decrees of the church, these two should be left alone at this moment to share whatever intimacy they chose.

He turned to let himself out, planning to wait on the wharf. He pushed experimentally against the wall and it opened easily. He stepped forth, lifting his eyes only to see a white-knuckled fist close on the edge of the panel from without.

"Monsieur le Vicomte!" he gasped.

Raoul jerked the wall panel from the priest's grasp, his eyes blazing. In his hand he held the same pistol with which he had once shot Erik.

"You brought her here," Raoul rasped, his voice filled with the contemptuous fury of betrayal. His garments were soaked, indicating that he had swum the lake.

"Don't, Monsieur!" Father Reynard commanded, but Raoul jerked him from the door and shoved him aside with unexpected power, standing fully in the aperture and staring into the room where Erik and Christine still stood in one another's arms. Christine turned her back against Erik, facing Raoul and staring at him with bewildered dismay. Once again, his pistol locked on Erik and his thumb pulled back the hammer.

"Unhand her, monster," Raoul grated, the tendons in his handsome jaw flexing with fury. "Immediately. You may have forced yourself on her before, but never again."

Erik smiled dryly, understanding the irony of fate. With irresistible strength he set Christine aside, one hand continuing to hold her away when she would have flung herself on him, to shield him. He faced Raoul with pride.

"No, Raoul!" Christine pleaded, her voice growing shrill. The Vicomte's expression remained unchanging. "He never touched me, do you hear? Raoul!"

"You'd lie to spare him," Raoul grated, sparing her a pained glance. "I really believe you would." His hand curled around the pistol's grip more tightly. "I did not give my permission for you to return here. But we will discuss that matter at a later time."

Raoul's words gave Christine an idea, and she stepped away from Erik. He let her go warily, dividing his attention between her and the standoff with Raoul's pistol to ensure that she did not mean to throw herself into the line of fire.

"You're right, Raoul," Christine quavered, passing her hand over her face. "I don't know what came over me--" She shivered, lifting her eyes to him, beseeching. "I couldn't resist his voice, and when he came to me, I followed him!" Tears flowed from her eyes, and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself as if to calm a chill. "Please, let's just go from here. We'll be married. We'll go today, and never return. He won't find us, he won't be able to tear me away from you again!"

Raoul stared at her with rage. "You lying slut!" he hissed. "I followed you myself, all the way from Notre Dame. He never enticed you, it was your own idea to come back to him--" his voice broke, and he uttered a curse as his emotions betrayed him.

"You are right. She has chosen to return to me, Monsieur." Erik taunted Raoul. "She has returned of her own will. When I die, I will die knowing that I hold her love and you do not."

"He let you go, Raoul," Christine begged, backing away from the naked fury in Raoul's face, her blue eyes overflowing. "Remember, he could have killed you--"

Christine's sobs and pleas did not impress the Vicomte. "Shut up and stand away," he informed her tightly, as he continued to stare at Erik with loathing. "You are to be my wife, and from this moment forth you will do as I say."

"Monsieur," Father Reynard had finally managed to shake off the stunning force of Raoul's blow and struggle to his feet. He wiped gingerly at a cut lip. "Do not be so hasty." He reached for Raoul's arm, but the Vicomte evaded him easily.

Raoul choked out a short laugh. "Hasty? I am finishing a task which I should have completed long ago." Inexorably, his forefinger tightened over the trigger.

The echoing explosion of the shot drowned Christine's sudden, hysterical screams.

Christine Daae stepped numbly from her carriage onto the immaculate grassy turf of the cemetery lawn. She felt dried and tired to the depths of her soul. The lengthy rituals of Catholic burial had drained her strength and her capacity for emotion. Endless recitations of the Rosary prayers; hundreds of curious onlookers who comforted her, questioned her, or ignored her by turns; the night-long vigil; the lengthy funeral mass, replete with thundering music... she was relieved it was finally almost finished.

She listened to Father Reynard's harmonious voice sadly intoning words of solemnized ritual. She could not concentrate enough for his speech to make sense in her ears. Instead she stared at the ornate, silver-plated coffin before her eyes.

If she looked up, she would see Carlotta standing across the way, along with many of the cast and management of the Opera. Meg Giry was there as well, her face pensive. Christine hoped she would not have to face their inevitable questions. She had already endured endless inquiries. Perhaps if she hurried after the ceremony she could make it back to her carriage before anyone realized she had gone.

She turned the heavy gold engagement band on her left fourth finger. Such an irony that she wore it now. She glanced at Father Reynard. He had been there to give last rites to the dying man. And now, even though her emotions were numbed and her heart heavy, she had no doubt he would be called on to perform a marriage ceremony as soon as her period of mourning had finished. She had so much to be grateful to him for: he had been unflinching in his support, helping her to deal with the persistent investigations of the gendarmes. He had also helped her to cope with her inevitable guilt over the final outcome of the situation.

The heat of the sun beat down on her head, making her dizzy, and she yearned longingly for the shaded cool of her carriage. The priest was sprinkling holy water, a final anointing of the dead. The coffin, of course, was closed. His body had never been displayed, just as she wished.

She stared at the ornate vault, whose stone walls were carven with diaphanous angels blowing marble trumpets. A knot of tears rose in her throat, eclipsing her vision with silver haze as the coffin was slid into the vault and the door sealed.

Father Reynard nodded to her gravely, pronouncing a final benediction.

Christine did not wait for him to finish. She slipped away unobtrusively through the crowd of onlookers, melting through the funeral crowd back toward her coach. It was over at last, her decisions ended, her conflicting duties and obligations now pointless.

She opened the door of the coach and a gloved hand reached out to help her inside. Christine accepted it and let herself be pulled into the coach's dim interior.

His gentle hands wiped away her tears delicately, and he gently settled her to sit at his side, guiding her to lay her head on his shoulder. She offered him a feeble smile, accepting his comfort. He did not mention or resent her tears over his dead rival.

Would she have accepted the same comfort from Raoul if his pistol had not fatally misfired? Its barrel had exploded in his hand, the metal shards of it shattering his face and extinguishing his life within minutes. If it had not misfired, she might be sitting at his side... if she were, would he have offered his sympathy, so unselfishly accepting her grief for his rival? She did not think so.

Erik stroked her shoulder with understanding and she sighed, feeling her tension dissipate slightly. Her regrets would never fully pass away. The blame for much of this outcome could be very justly laid at her feet, but in the end Raoul had made his own decision, just as she had made hers. In jealousy and anger, he had proven that his nobility lay only in his name and his ancestry, not in his nature. It was not her fault that justice had come for him so swiftly.

She relaxed against Erik's side, content to trust him with both her grief and her love. He called softly to their driver, and the carriage rattled forward across the cobblestones of Paris, carrying them away toward their future together.

End.


End file.
